


To Sate a Mockingbird

by SubversiveMultiverse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Desire, Dubious Morality, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Murder, POV Male Character, Past Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 52,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubversiveMultiverse/pseuds/SubversiveMultiverse
Summary: Told from Petyr's POV. Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish rescues Sansa Stark from her personal hell in King's Landing. Over the course of time he finds himself strangely drawn to her. Can he override desire to sate his ambition?This fic follows/borrows from both the book and tv series. I do not own any of these characters.





	1. Liberation

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, loves. 
> 
> This is my first foray into fic writing.
> 
> I will post a chapter a week until finished (if it bloody kills me)
> 
> I will also be sure to put any chapter specific warnings in this portion of the text. For Chapter 1, there is masturbation, nothing huge, but if you don't like that sort of thing read no further!

The night was eerily silent. A thick fog blanketed everything. Claustrophobic. Tendrils wrapped around dark forms scattered over the deck like a lover’s embrace. The thin wisps that reached his skin caressed him, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. The only sounds were the low groans of the ship rocking in the waves, their splashes breaking on the ship, and, if one listened hard enough, the city on the shore tearing itself apart.

The only thing that belied his impatience was the drumming of his fingers on the railing. Cold, calculating eyes scanned the dark waters, waiting. For every digit that struck wood, a small glint of light reflected from the rings encircling nimble fingers. The moon was the only source of light, half full, and barely strong enough to pierce the fog.

 _'There are an incalculable number of ways this could go wrong,’_ he thought, _‘and only one it can go right.’_ He squashed the thought the moment it made itself known. The cards were down, the webs strung tight, the only way to benefit from chaos was to understand that you couldn’t control it. Dark brown hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. In the ever shifting haze, he heard a small splash. He stopped drumming his fingers, flicking them at the captain instead, who issued silent commands, and fog-shrouded men began readying the ship to sail.

A small vessel approached, two forms inside coming slowly into focus. He unfurled the rope ladder down the port side, and, feeling the ropes pull taut, reached out a bejeweled hand to assist his guest. A smaller hand reached for his, brushing fingertips before recoiling in recognition.

“Lord Baelish?”

Littlefinger silenced the question with a finger to his lips. His hand met hers again. “I have arranged passage for you out of Kings Landing, Alayne. We must move quickly; we must move silently.” The name left his lips with no emphasis, if it surprised her, she made no sign. _‘Good girl.’_

Littlefinger pulled her over the railing with one hand clutching hers, the other brought to guide her elbow and hoist her small weight over the bannister. She stumbled into his chest when her feet touched the deck.

Using him to right herself, Sansa turned to look for her guide in the vessel below. When her eyes took in the form slumped over oars still dripping salt water, she clenched her jaw. “You didn’t need to kill him,” she said, not turning.

“Alayne,” Littlefinger said softly, “it is certainly regrettable, but you know your father doesn’t like loose ends. The man that rescued you has my sincerest thanks”–he spun her by the elbow, meeting her eye–“and my deepest condolences.”

The ship began moving, a small gust of wind brought a single strand of auburn hair from the depths of her cowl. Her eyes bore into his, pale, deep, and endlessly blue. He fought the urge to suck in a breath under the scrutiny of her eyes. She pulled her elbow from his tender hold. “I understand, Father.” Her eyes wore a tightness about them, tired of witnessing death. “Where shall I sleep? The day has left me weary.”

A small burst of excitement wormed its way through his body at the word ‘father’. _'_ _I could be, Sansa. I could be your father, and your life would be wholly different than it is at present. If life had gone my way.'_ “It is this way, my dear. I’ve gathered some things you will have need of.”

O-O-O-O-O

He led her to a small cabin, her right arm hooked in his left. He opened the door for her, and shut it behind them with a soft snap. She stood, her eyes adjusting to the dark, while Petyr took moments to light candles throughout the small room, adding to the pale shaft of moonlight from the single window. “There is only one available cabin on this ship, which we will share for our journey.” He turned back to her, the rest of his words died on his lips, and his stomach clenched painfully. She was afraid. Her eyes found a small bed tucked into the right side of the room, and locked there, terrified.

“Sansa, what is the matter, Sweetling?” Petyr inquired, closing the gap between them to lend her any comfort she required.

Her eyes darted from Littlefinger to the bed and back again, her breath coming in gasps. “We are to share THAT bed? Lord Baelish, it’s tiny. Isn’t there somewhere else I could stay? Please,” she finished in a whisper. Tears filled her eyes, but did not fall. Her gaze fell to her hands, folding one over the other in her fright.

Petyr lifted his hands to her cheeks, brushing the tears from her lashes with lightly calloused thumbs. “Sansa, dearest. You misunderstand, look.” He walked to the left side of the room, occupied with only a writing desk befitting the cabin’s size. His hands found a lever in the wall she could not see. When pulled, a second bed unfolded that hovered just over the desk, held by chains. “THIS is my bed, Sweetling.” He turned back to her, stepping toward her with care.

Sansa controlled her expression, removing any trace of fear or relief. Her eyes met his again, at his closing distance, unshed tears still filling her eyes. Petyr took her hands gently in his, thumbs rubbing small circles in her palms. “Sansa, to everyone on this ship, save the captain, you are my daughter. A father would never let his daughter fall prey to the wandering hands of men at sea. You do not know me well, but I assure you that you are completely safe with me. I’ll not harm you in any way. You’ve endured much, for your young age. I’ll not see you endure more, if I can stop it. You have my word.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused offense, Lord Baelish.” Her expression changed slightly, it was a change Littlefinger knew well, one he’d seen in her father. ‘ _Trust, gods I must break you of that. Always plan for the knife in your back. Never trust.’_

He squeezed her hands lightly before releasing them. “None at all, Sansa.” Littlefinger reached up to curl a strand of auburn hair around a finger. “In our quarters, call me Petyr. Or Father, if it makes it easier for you to remember.”

“Yes Lord—Petyr.” She smiled, a small thing. _‘A victory.’_

“There is a small matter we must attend before you can sleep tonight, however.” Littlefinger’s eyes shifted between hers and the strand of hair he still twisted absentmindedly. “I don’t think, if I ever had children of my own, they would have such beautiful red hair.” The look she gave was one of understanding.

“Of course, Petyr.”

Littlefinger showed her to a small room adjoining their chambers in which she could dress. Inside was furnished by a washbasin, a stool, a chamber pot, and a mirror. Littlefinger left her a moment, and returned carrying a clean nightgown and undergarments. “If you’d like to dress for bed, I will assist you with your hair after. If you’ll permit me, my Lady.”

“I wouldn’t mind, my Lord. I’m afraid my hair is an ungainly mess.”

Littlefinger erased her fears with a quick grin, and left her to dress.

_'This will be an interesting endeavor indeed. The poor bird, she is so frightened. I can change that, turn her fear into steel. I need her to be steel.'_

O-O-O-O-O

After a quarter of an hour, Sansa stepped back into the chambers, draped in the white gown he brought her. On many girls her age, it would trail the floor, but she was a tall beauty, the gown swayed around her calves. Petyr could not find his voice when he tried to speak. Clearing his throat, he said, “You must forgive me, Sansa. I forget how very tall you are”–his throat was dry–“I’ll make sure you’ll receive properly fitting gowns when we land.”

She smiled, “Mother used to pray to the gods I wouldn’t grow an inch before I wore the gowns she’d make me for feast days. I always did, and she always shook her head, smiling while chiding me for ‘rude ankles’. I believe I’m done growing now, though. It’s what my Septa said, before…” she trailed off uncomfortably, and Petyr nodded to show he understood. He placed the fingertips of his right hand on the small of her back, guiding her gently to the chair at the desk. Sansa sat in the chair as a throne, taking one hand to unpin her hair, and the other to shake out her scarlet tresses.

Petyr lifted a hairbrush from the desk, bringing it to hover over her head. “May I?” he asked softly.

“If it pleases your Lordship,” Sansa replied, looking up at him through long lashes.

Petyr scooped a handful of her hair, bringing the teeth of the brush to her mane. He forced his breathing to remain steady. He couldn’t deny her attractiveness. It would be his downfall to ignore the hunger she sparked in him. He couldn’t let it go unchecked. He wasn’t a stranger to pleasure, to desire. It addles the mind, and disrupts the senses. Littlefinger took pride in his ability to remove himself from it, thriving in his abstinence. This would be no different.

Tangles came out of her hair easier than expected. After several minutes Petyr found himself running his fingers through the silky strands, entranced. She smelled of cinnamon and honey, it made him breathless. He produced a vial of dark liquid from his coat, holding it in front of Sansa’s face.

“I need you to lean your head back, my Lady, lest any of this get in your eyes.” She obliged, arching her pale neck backwards, exposing her throat. Petyr’s eyes, acting of their own accord, sought her pulse in the pale expanse of neck in front of him. He tore his gaze from the hypnotic thrumming, a smile turning the corners of his mouth. “I’m afraid the smell won’t be pleasant.” He uncorked the vial, noxious fumes chasing cinnamon and honey from his mind, steeling his resolve. With little preamble, he tipped a third of the contents into her sunset curtains.

Her eyes closed, a hum of contentment came from her throat as he gently massaged the thick oil around her temples. _‘Gods!’_ “Am I hurting you, Sansa?” The stillness of the air was painful, his voice broke slightly.

“No, Lord Baelish. You’re very kind. It feels good.” Her eyelids fluttered, her brows furrowed.

 _'Gods damn it all, control yourself!’_ “Petyr. Please call me Petyr. Don’t you grow tired of formality?”

He tipped another third of the concoction into her tresses, biting his tongue. “I grow tired of it sometimes, Petyr. Learning to remain formal in all situations has helped me stay alive, I believe. Where all else fails, propriety is a small comfort to fall back on.”

Petyr murmured something noncommittal, focusing on the tasks at hand. Half of him concentrated on his hands coaxing Tully red into a dark brown, the other half was keeping his face passive. An internal monologue berated him for his lustful musings. He poured the remaining third of the liquid into her hair, focusing on the ends, marveling slightly at the transformation. He glanced at her face, his fingers kneading the remnants of the noxious liquid for good measure, and found her eyes scanning his face. “Perhaps there’ll be enough remaining to color my graying temples,” he quipped, a humorous twinkle in his eye.

“The gray suits you, Petyr. I should think you’d look strange without it.” She replied, missing the amusement of the statement. “It lends credence to your playacting as my father.”

He bundled her hair up off of her shoulders for the dye to set, and offered her his elbow to sit upright. He grabbed a small, damp washcloth from the desk to remove the dye from his fingers. “You are, of course, correct, Sweetling. Would you care for wine while we let the dye work?” He indicated a decanter on the desk, two goblets standing empty next to it.

She smiled warmly. “That would be lovely.”

O-O-O-O-O

Littlefinger brought the goblet to his lips, the wine slid down his throat, cool, tangy, and sweet. He sat opposite Sansa, on the bed she would sleep in, while she sat in the chair at the desk, turned toward him. The silence stretched, not uncomfortably, each of them lost in their own musings. Littlefinger didn’t allow his eyes to rest on her for any length of time, he chose instead to look at the wall just beyond her left shoulder, scanning her in his periphery. Her hair was a darkening mop on her head, glistening with the oil whose stench still blanketed the room. She sat straight, a subconscious declaration of her highborn status. She clenched her knees, and kept her elbows tucked into her ribs, making herself small. Her hands cradled her own goblet, tracing the minute details on the outside, studying the contents with her eyes. Sitting as she was, the nightgown rode up, showing the bottom portion of her knees. Candlelight flickered all around, giving her a rosy complexion, yet it also showed the shadows under her eyes. Her expression was haunted.

“Petyr?” she inquired, her eyes still contemplating her wine.

“Yes, Sansa?” he let his gaze fall from above her shoulder to her face.

“I am glad he’s dead... I enjoyed watching him die.” Her eyes, almost feverish with the truth in them, met his.

Littlefinger’s mouth curled in a devious grin, which he hid, bringing the goblet to his lips to drain its contents. _‘I wish I could have watched that little cunt die. Being the orchestrater of his pitiful fall is enough.’_ “He treated you terribly. The whole kingdom is in uproar because of his petty choices. He was an awful king, and I am glad Westeros is rid of him,” he declared simply. Littlefinger crossed the room to pour himself another cupful of wine. “We’ll wash the excess from your hair, and let you get some sleep.”

Sansa drained her goblet, she placed it gingerly on the desk. She nodded sleepily, raised her arms above her head, arched her back slowly, stretching. Petyr bit his tongue, tasting blood. The imprint of her small breasts showed quite clearly in the fabric pulled tight over them, the hem of the nightdress slipped over her knee, exposing some _‘not enough’_ of her milky white thigh. Her lungs filled to the brim, and she slowly exhaled in a breathy moan, curling back in on herself, letting her hair hang over the back of the chair. Her hands snaked down her body to tug the hem back to her knees. Salt and copper on his tongue, semi hard, not a trace on his face, Petyr drained his second goblet of wine, and moved to retrieve the washbasin from the other room. Using a pitcher of water, he poured it over her hair, massaging the excess from her hair into the bowl at his feet.

Sansa sucked in a breath. “Cold!” Gooseflesh rose up her arms, her nipples hardened under the dress, her eyes widened in shock. Petyr chuckled darkly.

“I apologize, Sweetling. I should have warned you.”

Two pitchers of water later, and Petyr was toweling her now brown locks dry. He started at her crown, rubbing both hands in a circular pattern against one another around her hair. He picked up the brush, and pulled it through her hair. Something in her uncoiled at his ministrations, her body was curled slightly in the chair, her breathing evened out. She had both arms folded around her middle comfortably, her eyes shut in almost sleep. Petyr finished as quickly as he was able, finding himself losing control. He cleared his throat to get her attention, offered a hand to help her up. She took his hand in hers, stood from the chair with an appreciative smile. Sansa stepped to the bed designated for her, moving aside the covers to slip silently under them. It didn’t take long at all for her to fall into a slumber.

O-O-O-O-O

Littlefinger placed his left hand under his right elbow, and spread his thumb and forefinger of his right over his moustache. He traced around his mouth, and pinched the downy hairs on his chin in an effort to focus. _‘Gods damn it all.’_

He took a last look at the sleeping girl before turning around to sit at his desk. From a drawer, he retrieved a sheet of parchment, quill, and inkwell. Minutes later, the letter he needed to write still existed in the inkwell. The tip of his quill hovered over the parchment as he sought words. His thoughts swam around his mind, hazy, fractured. Frustrated, he wiped the quill, and replaced the items back in their drawer.

He ran a hand through his short, bristly hair. The other drifted lazily down his chest, undoing the clasps of his tunic. He shrugged the garment off, leaned forward to snuff the fire of a candle with thumb and forefinger. It _burned._ He hissed, bringing his thumb to his mouth, sucking on the residual heat. Heat blossomed in his belly. He paused, breathing as normally as he was able. _‘Gods damn it all.’_ He stood up, blowing out all other candles in the room, except for the one over Sansa’s bed. Outside of the pool of light that framed her slumbering form, Petyr unlaced and kicked off his boots. He stalked silently to her bedside, braced himself on the wall so he could put out the final candle. Enshrouded in darkness, save for the still feeble light of the moon shining dully through the window, Littlefinger thought.

He could hear her breathing, from somewhere around his navel, curled in on herself on the bed. His two cups of wine sought to break his resolve. He would not be broken by the likes of fermented fruit. Decision made, he dragged his feet away from her bed, the rough wooden floor sending sensations from his bare feet directly into the fire gaining intensity in his abdomen. _‘I will not touch her.’_ He couldn’t deny his desire; his skin was feverish. His feet found their way reluctantly to the room next to theirs. Every stimulus crawled from his exterior, lighting flaming paths inward. He shut the door behind himself, meeting his own eyes in the mirror, the single candle made his grey-green eyes dance dangerously. He needed to rid himself of this tension.

Leaning a shoulder on the door, his fingers walked up his chest to unlace his shirt. He tugged the garment out from his breeches, inhaling sharply when the fabric dragged unceremoniously over his stiffening cock. He stood straighter, looking over his bare chest. Dark hairs grew in the expanse between his nipples, save for the wicked scar that traced from sternum to navel. He grazed his fingers from one nipple, through his chest hair, to the other, and back center. Gooseflesh exploded over his body at his touch. _‘How long has it been since I’ve done this? Gods, it’s been years since I’ve needed to this badly.’_ He ran the pads of his nimble fingers down the scar marring his chest, scrubbing through the dark hair under his navel. He unlaced his breeches slowly.

Petyr bent to drag his breeches to his feet. On the floor he saw the smallclothes Sansa had traded for clean ones. He picked them up, standing to resume his self-exploration. They were dainty things, her undergarments. Trimmed with lace, embroidered with pastel petals. He brought them to his face, inhaling deeply. Cinnamon, honey, and a darker musky smell haunted the fringes of his sanity. He caught the fabric in his teeth to stifle an involuntary groan, precum beading on the head of his cock. _‘Gods.’_

He trailed his right hand down his ribs, over his abdomen, through the dark hair surrounding his cock, to grip it. His left hand kept the undergarment pressed under his nose, over his mouth. He swiveled his hips, languidly stroking himself. Soft curses fell from his lips into patterned cloth. Completely incoherent, he lost track of time, succumbing entirely to his desire. He alternated from a closed fist to a lazy drape, allowing his longer digits to tickle his head. Sweat formed on the small of his back as he fucked his hand. His mind flashed with tantalizing images, an arched neck, perky breasts, bared thighs. He remembered her silky hair, falling over his fingers. He heard her moans. “Sansa,” he breathed, a prayer.

He was moving faster now, a dull roar in his ears, his hand firmly fisting over his cock. The garment he held to his face was moist with his labored breathing, intensifying her scent. The heat in the center of his stomach became white hot, pinpointed at the tip of his prick. He picked up his pace. He ground his teeth at his tempo, swallowing words that now repeated themselves over and again in his head. _‘Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.’_ He wrenched the garment from his face, wrapped it around the head of his cock as he spent his seed. All fight went out of him. He leaned heavily on the door, naked save for the pants pooled at his feet.

His cock softened, his head cleared. Numbly, he wiped himself with her smallclothes, gritting his teeth at the fabric that now felt coarse. He pulled up and loosely laced his breeches. He smirked tiredly at his reflection before putting out the candle. He made his way carefully to the far side of the room, carrying his shirt over an arm, the smallclothes in his hand. He placed both garments in a chest under the desk, before pulling the lever to reveal his bed. He stepped onto the chair for want of a ladder, and fell, boneless atop his covers. Sleep overcame him instantly.


	2. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr lost his nerve in the previous chapter. Can he keep himself under control while remaining in close quarters with Sansa Stark?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Description of previous physical abuse

The sun blazed bright, flooding the cabin with its light, if not warmth. Littlefinger woke slowly. His right arm was draped across his eyes, his left splayed across his stomach, rising and falling with every breath. Wool bedding reflected his body heat, scratching his back lightly as he began actually waking. Littlefinger catalogued and tucked away the previous night’s memories. He sat up, swiveling his legs over the side of his bed, making sure to duck slightly so as not to knock his head on the ceiling. He scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair, rumpling it, looking at the girl perched in her own bed, sewing patterns into one of the dresses he’d brought for her.

“Good morning Alayne,” his voice was gravel, his eyes still sleepy, “did you sleep well?”

Sansa looked up from her work, laying her hands in her lap, as she appraised him. “I did, father, thank you.” Her eyes raked over his body as he swung himself down from his bunk, landing barefoot by his desk. “Lor—Pe—Father,” she stuttered, a blush coloring her cheeks, “what happened?”

He looked down at his bare chest, and, seeing the object of her questioning look, grimaced. “Oh, this?” He skimmed a hand from navel to sternum, up around his neck, to cradle his head in a hand. He expelled all of the air in his lungs, flattening his hair as he did, before replying. “It was a lesson that I needed to learn, early on. Growing up with the Tullys, as a young boy, was very advantageous for the man you see today. I pledged my love to your mother,” grey eyes scanned blue, “and her intended split me with a sword. I am no warrior. I learned that day to play the game in my own way.”

Silence. Then, “I’m sorry that happened, Petyr. Forgive my rudeness.” She resumed her sewing, though not with the same intense care as before.

“Not at all, Sweetling,” he replied, shaking out a clean linen shirt before pulling it over his head. “Matters of the heart are hard lessons to swallow. I don’t mind sharing this part of me with someone who has suffered similarly.” He noticed her grimace at the hem of her dress, pulling the string through with more snap than the occasion called for. He stepped forward a pace, his feet warming under the beam of sunlight on the floor, eyeing her stiffened posture soberly. “I hope I haven’t offended you, Sansa.”

“No, Lord Baelish.” She abandoned her sewing, turned her body to place her feet delicately on the floor, and smoothed her skirts before looking at him. “It’s all very recent for me. If I’m honest, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep dreaming about being dragged in front of the court, being flogged in front of Joffrey. I look and wonder who will hurt me next.”

Petyr squatted down, reaching his hand to cover hers over her knee, his thumb brushed her fingers lightly. She never dropped his gaze. “Sansa, I promise to protect you. I’m only sorry I couldn’t protect you sooner.” She smiled, and he returned her smile. Petyr stood, stretching to his toes, his untucked shirt exposing his lower abdomen, he leaned his head from one side to the other, his neck popping. “What would you like to do today? Would you walk in the sunlight, or remain below deck, Sweetling?”

“I believe I would like to remain here, today. I’m not completely well, just yet.” Concern wormed its way onto his face. _‘Too long working on getting you back, and not enough information.’_

“What ails you, my Lady?” Her shoulders hunched inward, her brown hair fell to hide her expression. “Sansa,” Petyr stepped closer, “please let me help you. I know you were married to the Imp, did he hurt you in some way?”

Surprise won out over shame, and her expression hit him like a fist. “Tyrion is the only noble Lannister there is” she insisted. “The night we were wed, I was scared, and he swore to never force me to share my bed. Joffrey, on the other hand, threatened to have his guards…” Tears spilled unbidden down her cheeks, falling into her lap. Petyr sat on the bed, crushed her to his chest, and kissed the top of her head.

“Did Joffrey take you against your will, dove?” _‘I will piss on your grave, and kill your family, I swear it by the Seven!’_ She shook her head in his chest, pressing a hand over his heart to sit up and look at him.

“No. He threatened to, but no.” Her brows furrowed in remembered distress. “After I married Lord Tyrion, most of the abuse stopped. But Tyrion wanted our marriage almost as little as I, and drank often. He would wake in a drunken stupor, and fall asleep in the same manner. He couldn’t keep Joffrey away all the time. Days before his wedding he s-sent for me.” She bore holes in the backs of her hands with her eyes. “He said this would be the last fun he could have before marrying Margery. He summoned two guards to put a hood on my head, strip me, and hold me down while he pummeled my stomach with his fists. He pinched my breasts, and smacked my back with a belt. He didn’t stop until he’d cracked a rib, despite the blood pooling around my knees.” Her expression was detached and emotionless.

“What did the Maester say, when he tended you, Sansa?” Petyr’s voice was a whisper.

She laughed, but there wasn’t a shred of joy in it. “The Maester. The Maester never knew. Joffrey knew how hard to beat me so that I could heal on my own. He threatened to murder me in my sleep if I told anyone.”

Petyr remained passive on the outside. His insides had shriveled in his fury. He would kill the lot of them, with agonizing slowness. “Sansa”–the tears in his voice, and pooling in his eyes surprised him – “may I tend your wounds? I’m no Maester, but I have a few poultices that may bring you some relief.”

“He beat me while I was naked, Lord Baelish. I am no longer comfortable being naked in _my own_ company.” Her wooden expression was worrisome.

“Sansa,” he implored delicately, “I won’t ask you to bare any more of yourself than you have to, but I don’t want to see you hurt. Please?” He gripped her hand in both of his, trying to catch her gaze, but it was fixed elsewhere. She turned her back to him, hugging her knees. After what seemed an eternity, her hands dragged the nightgown up and over her head, but she kept her arms in it, so the garment gathered at her chest. She lay face down on the bed, her body shuddering with quiet tears.

Petyr sat, numb, beside her. Breathing deeply, he looked down at her, almost naked, and bit his lip to stop himself from groaning. He took her in from two perspectives. She was injured, badly, but she was unmistakably beautiful. Her proportions were perfect. He could see her breasts pressed into the feather mattress, her ribs showed slightly under pale flesh.  Her back arched gracefully, the swell of her buttocks may as well have been carved by the gods for man to feast upon. Her legs extended behind his position on the bed, endless. He noticed there were no markings on her legs, so he covered them in linens, much to his displeasure. _‘How in the world am I supposed to keep myself above this? Am I not a man?’_ but he would. His eyes returned to her back, where every expanse of creamy white skin was marred by badly healing cuts and purple handprints. Silver white scars spread under the new marks. They were shallow, to be sure, but not any less painful or severe.

Petyr stood to retrieve the poultices from his personal belongings trying to regain composure. His mind reeled. It was unfathomable that anyone could intentionally inflict so much harm with so little to gain for it. _‘Pleasure, Joffrey got pleasure from torturing Sansa. People pay anything to experience pleasure. She still has her maidenhead, though. A small mercy. Perhaps a profitable one.’_ He grimaced.

When he looked at her again, she hadn’t moved an inch. Her shoulders still shook with silent tears, and gooseflesh pimpled her skin in the morning chill. “Sansa,” he breathed, settling to his knees beside her bed, “this may sting, but it should feel nice after a few moments. I want you to tell me to stop if the pain gets to be too much.” A small hiccough emanated from her pillow, which he took as consent.

Petyr uncorked a pot of minty smelling paste, his eyes skimming over her bared form, deciding where to begin. He palmed some of the salve, cupping it between both hands warming it, before bringing his delicate fingers to her tense shoulders. A convulsion ran from her shoulders to her toes at his touch. Her back arched, in surprise or pain, he did not know. She stopped crying. He worked the poultice over her wounds, applying as little pressure as he was able. It astounded him how warm her skin was around the welts in comparison to the rare, unblemished bits of flesh. As his hands moved slowly down her back, she began to curl into his touch, her trembling stopped. He exhaled through strangled lungs, fighting an erection despite himself. The last blemish to feel the tender care of his fingers disappeared under the covers, on her backside. He ran both hands splayed out from her spine, with his thumbs at center over her arse. She whimpered, pressing her face farther into the pillow, and he ran his hands back up her spine counting every ridge to settle a hand on a shoulder.

“Would you roll over, and allow me to tend the wounds on your stomach?” When he received no reply, he stood, setting the pot on the bedside table. “I’ll leave the salve here for you to work over the wounds on your front side if you so desire. I will fetch us some breakfast.” Still no response from her. Littlefinger stood, adjusting himself unceremoniously in his breeches. He tucked in his shirt, stepped into his boots, retrieved his coat, and left the cabin soundlessly.

O-O-O-O-O

Cool sea air filled his lungs as he stepped out on deck. Littlefinger went in search of the captain. He found the man, but not before grabbing the arm of a deckhand and telling the man to fetch a tray of breakfast for two. The captain raked eyes over the goings on, settling grimly on Littlefinger. Littlefinger paid no mind. “Ho, captain,” Littlefinger said tersely, “what news?”

The man ignored the question. “I hope your _daughter_ has settled in, Littlefinger. Pretty little thing.” Littlefinger did not miss the emphasis on ‘daughter’, his expression darkened. _‘Loose ends. I do so fucking hate loose ends.’_

“She is settling in well, remaining below decks, I fear her stomach is not accustomed to sea life.” He did not repeat his question; his eyes took on a tinge of impatience.

“Ah, poor little bird. I may have something that could help, in my quarters.” His hungry expression left as quickly as it came at Littlefinger’s murderous glare. They stood, eyes locked for what seemed an eternity, interrupted by the deckhand returning with a covered tray and sweating pitcher. Littlefinger dismissed the man with a wave, cradling the tray to his chest as he made to walk back to the cabin, but stopped short when the captain called out to him. “Ho, Littlefinger, I meant no disrespect”– _‘a lie’_ – “this arrived before we set sail yesterday.” The man held out a raven scroll, not quite meeting Littlefinger’s gaze. He took the scroll without a word, and left the man surveying his crew.

O-O-O-O-O

Sansa was dressed in her nightgown again when he walked through the door, he noted with slight disappointment. He flourished the tray in her direction, attempting humor in the stillness. She glanced at him, her eyes red rimmed, but dry. “How do you feel,” he began soberly, “any better?”

She paid him a small smile, replying timidly “Yes, Petyr. The sores don’t sting anymore. Though being numb feels strange.” She rolled her shoulders, demonstrating how easily she moved them, and returned to her sewing.

“Eating will help, as well. You should have some breakfast.” He indicated the platter again, setting it down on the bedside table. She took a small slice of sweetbread and a blood orange, nibbling on the bread. He set the tray on the desk, and poured some of the iced juice into her goblet. She murmured thanks, taking the goblet from his outstretched hands, her mouth full of food. He smiled, turning from her, taking a seat at the desk. He filled his own goblet, split the seal on the raven scroll, and drank deeply as he read.

The wheels turned in Littlefinger’s mind.  He thought deeply, minutes, hours, he wasn’t sure. “What does it say, Petyr?” He jolted from his contemplation.

“Hmm? Oh this?” He held up the raven scroll, turning to face Sansa. “It says that your lord husband has been seized on suspicion of poisoning the king. He will face a trial, if I know Tywin, he will be encouraged to take the black.”

Her eyes bore into his. “He did not kill Joffrey.”

Littlefinger smiled. “I don’t doubt that, Sweetling. Cersei doesn’t much care, I wouldn’t think. She won’t rest until the Imp is dead, but Tywin won’t allow it. Tell me, love,” he tested, “who do you think killed him?”

She regarded her embroidery thoughtfully. “I think,” she began, “it was you, my lord.”

Littlefinger smiled widely, turning back to his quill and parchment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I am halfway through writing Chapter 8 as of 10/11/16
> 
> I solemnly swear to post the fic at a faster rate if/when I complete it!
> 
> Comments and kudos make me warm and fuzzy
> 
> If you're interested, check out my blog for fic(s) on tumblr, user name is subversivemultiverse


	3. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Petyr have reached the Inn at the Crossroads. Changed from the last time Sansa was there. They stay an evening, and learn a little bit more about one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Getting into some angsty stuff, but nothing majorly trigger worthy (I assume, please correct me if I'm wrong!)

The remainder of the voyage passed quickly. Sansa and Littlefinger spent their time orbiting one another, easily adopting the father/daughter persona when above deck. Sansa would walk arm in arm with him, pointing out clouds and fish, affecting an air of vapid worship toward him. Below deck, they sparred with words, Littlefinger laid the foundation of steel and wit in her quick mind. Times he was above while she remained below, he sowed the seeds of dissent between crew and captain, slipping them silvers when the captain wouldn’t see. Loose ends.

When they made port at Darry, Littlefinger and Alayne Stone led their mounts from the harbor, their modest belongings on a packhorse trailing them.

“He knew my true identity. What will happen if the captain tells someone in King’s Landing that you helped me?” Sansa asked, one hand holding the reins, the other stroking her mounts coarse hair.

Littlefinger nudged his mount closer to hers. “The captain will not make it back to King’s Landing. Of that, you can be certain.”

Sansa regarded him with a piercing stare, but she said nothing. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, the morning sun spun notes of gold amidst the brown. She wore a dark grey cloak over a simple grey gown, split for riding. Her skirts rode up, but thick stockings kept her modest. She allowed her shoulders to slouch slightly, pretending to be a bastard, she wouldn’t have quite the upright posture of a lady.

They rode in comfortable silence for a time, lost in thought, sparing concentration enough to guide their mounts along the dirt road. Near midday, Sansa interrupted his thoughts by handing him a heel of stale bread and some strips of dried meat. He thanked her quietly, eating as he rode.

Plans spiraled in his mind. Knowing that Sansa’s maidenhead was intact made making a match for her priority. She couldn’t resurface until Tyrion’s trial. The Lannisters couldn’t have her. He would wed Lysa, find a way to dispose of her, send Robert to Casterly Rock as a ward of the Lannisters. He would have the Vale, ties to the west, and through Sansa, a powerful ally in the north. In next to no time at all, Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish would no longer be a man with ambitions that exceeded his means, he would be a powerful contender to all of Westeros. Men would bend the knee to live and die at his command. His sigil would show proudly on his banners. He would tug strings, and kings would die, civilizations would crumble, the world would be upended –

Littlefinger was wrenched from his thoughts by a hand on his thigh. He was hyper aware of that connection. The fabric under her fingers warmed at her touch, it rubbed forward and back as he swayed with his horse. He sought her gaze, a question in his eyes, his head cocked to one side.

She pulled her hand back, as if burned, her eyes meeting his. “I asked where we were going, and you didn’t answer. You looked troubled, I’m sorry if I offended you my lord.” Her posture was guarded. _‘Still so afraid, after all this time.’_

He flashed her a grin. “Not at all, Sweetling. I was lost in my own musings for a time. My, it has gotten late, hasn’t it? We should be at the Crossroads soon.” Sansa relaxed, her eyes leaving him to survey the road ahead. The sun hung low to the left, their shadows fused to make a single horse with two riders. “We’ll find beds at the inn, and gather provisions for our trek along the High Road. It’ll be nice to have a hot meal and a mug of ale, to tell it true.”

Sansa sighed contentedly. “And a bed that doesn’t sway with the sea, clean sheets, and a _bath_.” She giggled, falling forward into her mare’s mane.

O-O-O-O-O

The inn loomed ahead with the darkening landscape, its windows boasting the warm life inside. They left their horses with a stable hand, Littlefinger tossed him two silver coins for his service. Sansa rubbed the mare’s nose with tender fingers, before turning to follow Littlefinger into the boisterous inn. The inside was indeed boisterous.

They edged around the outskirts of the common room, narrowly avoiding being bowled over by a drunkard attempting to dance to the tune weaving in and out of the crowd. A girl stood atop a platform, her gown cut low. Her voice carried an unpleasant lilt to it, an edge no doubt softened by ale. The inn keeper, they found to be an aging man with a harried look about him. Serving girls came to receive orders, and darted away again, laden with trays of ale and food. Sansa eyed the food hungrily. Littlefinger drew the man’s eyes to him with a coin purse he held aloft.

“My daughter and I require two beds, a private dining room, hot food, and a hotter bath.” The man’s eyes swung in time with the purse, but rose to meet Littlefinger’s at the request.

“I can give you one bed m’lord, and the rest, but I’ve only the one left.” Littlefinger clutched the purse, dropping his hand slightly.

“We’ll take your best room, then, and the linens had best be fresh.” The man ducked his head in assent, the purse dropping heavily into his palm. He waved for two of his girls to come over, and instructed them to attend their needs. One had black hair, grey eyes, and a beak of a nose; she was of an age with Sansa. The other was older, with mousy brown hair, and blue eyes. They both curtsied as the inn keep turned to leave them, Littlefinger regarded them with a bored expression. “See to it that our belongings make it to our room, bring us two plates of the roast and vegetables, I’ll have a mug of ale, my daughter will have spiced wine. When we have our food, draw a bath, as hot as you can make it, let us know when it is done.” They both nodded and turned to see to their demands.

The inn keeper led them to a secluded dining area, separated from the common room by a heavy curtain, where there were tables and benches with high backs to separate guests. Petyr and Sansa sat across from one another, waiting for food, they were the only patrons dining behind the curtain.

“It’s so different, here.” Sansa intoned in a quiet voice.

“Hmm? How so, Sweetling?” Petyr pressed his fingertips into the table in a slow, rolling rhythm.

“When we came to King’s Landing, we stopped here, at the Crossroads. It was much quieter then. A woman ran the inn. I remember her teeth looked bloodied, though mother said it was just leaves that she chewed,” she laughed humorlessly, “I was _afraid_ of her.” Her eyes dropped to the hands in her lap, memories surfaced as tears in her eyes.

Before Petyr could respond, the serving girls were there, setting trays laden with food between them. Sansa accepted a cup of wine, murmuring thanks, and Petyr took a long draw on his mug of ale before setting it down on the table. The din of the common room came to them as the women passed back through the curtain.

Sansa glanced at him, and smiled, her tears forgotten. “Father!” she exclaimed. “You have foam in your moustache.” She stood to lean over the table, bringing her napkin to his mouth, wiping the foam from his lips. He froze. She didn’t seem to notice. _‘Gods damn it all. We cannot reach the Eyrie soon enough. The proximity is likely to destroy whatever sanity I claim to have.’_

The food before them smelled intoxicating. The night’s roast was chicken atop a bed of mushrooms and root vegetables. The chicken was rubbed with herbs, and stuffed with lemon, garlic, and onion. A pot of gravy, a tray of butter, and a loaf of fresh bread sat on the other tray. Sansa claimed a leg and a wing for herself, along with a quarter of the vegetables, spearing a mushroom on the end of her fork. Her eyelids fluttered dreamily, as she bit into the fungus. “Here,” said Petyr, buttering a slice of the warm bread. She accepted it gratefully, her mouth full. It was delicious.

O-O-O-O-O

They ate ravenously, only pausing to take sips of beer and wine. Sansa had just drained the remainder of her goblet when the dark haired serving girl entered the dining room again to show her to her bath. Littlefinger walked into the common room to sit with another tankard of beer while he waited. The woman wasn’t singing, so much as screeching, but to the rowdy crowd it didn’t matter. Littlefinger asked a redheaded serving woman to fetch him ink, quill, and parchment, drumming his fingers on the tabletop in time with the song. She proffered the items without ceremony, turning to glare at a patron who’d pinched her bottom.

Littlefinger listed the things he and Sansa would require for their journey to the Eyrie. When the list was complete, he gave it time to dry, sipping on his ale. The list dried, the ale dwindled, the noise level raised. Minutes ticked by, he wasn’t sure how many.

“Father?” Sansa said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Littlefinger resisted the impulse to break the arm attached to the hand on his shoulder when he realized _who_ it was attached to. Had he been sleeping? Surely not.

“Forgive me, Alayne, I’m more tired than I realized.” He scrubbed his face with ringed hands. “What is it, Sweetling?”

“It’s your bath, father,” she said with an airy giggle, “it’s ready for you. Mine was _glorious_.”

He favored her with a sleepy grin. “Alright, darling, go on up to the room, I’ll be up momentarily.” He folded the parchment, swung his legs out from under the table, and stood up. How he’d managed to doze in the drunken chorus around him was beyond him. He located the inn keeper, standing surveying his establishment. Littlefinger pressed the parchment into the man’s hands, along with a coin purse. “See to it that we have these items before we break our fast in the morning, whatever is left is yours.” The man nodded in agreement, looking over the list critically.

“I’ll see it done, m’lord.” Littlefinger gave him a curt nod, bade him goodnight, and carried his tired bones up the stairs.

O-O-O-O-O

He entered the washroom, steam rising of the bath in a heady cloud. Scented oils had been added to the bathwater, Petyr was eager to wash the smell of the sea off of him. He unclasped his riding cloak, folded it crudely, and tossed it onto a bench next to the bath. He unbuttoned his grey coat, his eyes never leaving the bath, thinking it a lover he intended to sink himself into. He untucked his once white shirt from his breeches, pulling it over his head. _‘I will burn the shirt, it is too filthy to entertain cleaning’_. He sat atop the bench, unlaced and pulled off his boots, wiggling his toes thankfully. He unlaced his breeches, stood slipping them down over his slender hips. He stepped out from the pile he’d made, and walked to the edge of the tub. The door opened.

“Fa—oh!” He turned toward the voice, startled. Sansa stood fully in the washroom, her face a flame under brown hair, a pile of clean clothes at her feet. She covered her face with her hands, mumbling through trembling fingers “Petyr, I’m sorry, I should have knocked! I came to tell you the room at the end of the hall is ours, I assumed you’d be _in_ the bath!” She was rambling.

A telling heat pooled in his abdomen, he slipped into the water quickly, to hide his excitement. “Alayne,” he jibed at her playfully, “you act as if you’ve never seen a man naked before.” He poured a pitcher of water over his head, thankful for the heat. She lowered her hands only when she was sure he was in the water, her face still beet red.

“I haven’t ever, se—father. Except little boys, but they…” she trailed off, swallowing the rest of the statement. Her virtue bolstered something dangerous in Littlefinger, he wondered vaguely if he could coax her to come closer. He lay an arm on either side of the tub, his erection standing proudly in the hot water, though hidden from Sansa’s current vantage.

“Well, now you have, Sweetling. How does it make you feel?” he ventured. He chuckled at her affront, her posture stiffened, as if to respond, but mercifully, he cut her off. “I’ve forgotten the soap, would you hand it to me, Alayne?”

Her brows knit together, gods be good he thought she’d flee the room, but she walked over to his laundry and proffered a bar of soap from a basket. “Yes father.” As she laid the soap in his hand, she looked him in the eye, something determined danced behind her own. “There was one man, once, father. His name was Gerald, he baked fine bread and cakes. I let _him_ see me naked”–his blood quickened– “I let him touch my breasts”–his stomach fluttered– “I asked to see his manhood, to hold it. He liked it, though I was new to it.” Every ounce of concentration went into keeping his hands still, and his breathing even. “He swelled, it was strange, to tell it true”–her eyes left his to trail under the murky water, she gazed at his cock, he felt a prickling sensation from the top of his head to his toes– “but he was _large_.” Her eyes met his, she gave him a small smile before sauntering from the room.

He blew out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. _‘She is turning to steel. Gods damn it all’_. He was harder than ever, an all too frequent affliction since rescuing Sansa from King’s Landing. She’d never seen a naked man before, but her recovery from the sight was spectacular to say the least. Her quick wit was a balm in the ever increasingly stupid world. He scrubbed himself raw with the soap, leaving him smelling of lemon and pine. He stood to rinse, the cool air softening his cock. By the time he’d dried off and donned the clean clothes, he had only one thought, bed.

O-O-O-O-O

Petyr walked silently to the door at the end of the hall. He pushed lightly on the door, relieved when it gave; that Sansa hadn’t decided to lock him out for his foolishness. One could never be sure. He found her lying on one side atop the bedclothes in a nightgown, her still-damp hair in a simple braid, a book unfolded at her breast, reading by the light of a single candle. She ignored him, engrossed as she was in her book. She yelped when he tickled her bare foot, threw a pillow at his head, it found its mark, and she was giggling. A fire crackled in the hearth, bathing them both in a warm light.

“We should sleep, Sweetling. We need to break our fast early and be on our way.” Petyr pulled his shirt off, and laid it out flat over the back of a chair. He slipped his unlaced boots from his feet, unfolded the corner of the bedspread, and got under the covers. Petyr stared at her back through half lidded eyes, she lay unmoving, but for a tremor. Petyr reached out with tentative fingers, and brushed her arm. Sansa convulsed inward, breaking into a sob.

“Please.” She breathed.

“Sansa,” Petyr intoned softly, he retracted his arm, folding his hands into his armpits, “please look at me.” She shook her head weakly. “Please.” Something in his chest broke at the sight of her. _‘When you play the Game of Thrones, either you win, or you die.’_ She’d never played the game for herself, but she’d been a pawn on more sides than Peter would like to count. By all rights she should be dead, but here she was. A slip of a girl, scared of being his pawn, and his pawn she was. Then it hit him. A frightened boy sent to live with strangers. How many nights had he cried under Hoster Tully’s roof before he felt safe? He’d been younger than her, true, but she had been ripped from everything she knew to be right and pure in the world, shredded by a malevolent king. That her maidenhead was intact was a pittance of a mercy. “Please,” he whispered, “please, please, please.” He found his eyes swimming in tears. _‘I haven’t cried since I was a boy.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading, you are fantastic, and per the norm, I will update this fic Tuesday October 25!
> 
> **Edit** I'll be posting chapters 4 & 5 next week. They're a _smidge_ shorter than the first three, and I'd hate to leave you for a week with short, albeit dense, text. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it!


	4. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night is dark and full of terrors. One thing Petyr and Sansa share is a disturbed past. Might they find comfort in one another's presence?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Description of nightmares and night terrors

_Petyr was running through the halls of Riverrun, though the walls were twisted and elongated. He was a boy of eight again, his gait too small to carry him away from his pursuer. His breath came ragged, choked with tears. Behind him, Brandon Stark stalked after him, unhurriedly, dragging a sword along the ground. The scraping carried through the distorted hallway, and in a hungry sing-song voice Brandon called. “Peeeetyr,” over, and over, and over. At the end of the hall stood a girl, facing away from him, her face buried in her hands, crimson hair spilling over hunched shoulders. He came upon her with agonizing slowness._

_"Cat!” He cried, a hand outstretched for her. “Catelyn! Please!”_

_The girl turned slowly, removing her hands from her face. Tears spilled from hollow sockets, but the face wasn’t Cat’s, and the tears were bloody. A dark oil started at Sansa’s crown, cascading down her hair in a murky brown. Sansa pointed a finger at his chest, halting his all-out sprint. “Catelyn Stark is dead. And it is **your** fault.”_

_A sword exploded from his breast, slicing him navel to sternum, Sansa’s words fell upon him as judgement._

Petyr opened his eyes. He could see nothing. Gingerly, he pressed fingertips to his chest, the scarred tissue feeling as it always had. His heart beat a wild tempo beneath his ribs, his skin was feverish. _‘Gods damn it all. Just a dream. Pull yourself together.’_

O-O-O-O-O

His eyes sought Sansa in the gloom of the room. Keeping his mind silent, he focused on her breathing, coaxing his own to match her steady in-out rhythm. Moonlight filtered in through dirty windows, bathing everything in blue. Sansa’s skin seemed to glow, her long body laid out atop the blankets. He was close enough to reach out to her, but kept his distance. He studied every inch of her. Her braided hair snaked out toward him, smelling of lemon and pine, and underneath that, cinnamon and honey. Her nightgown hugged around the curves of her body, rising and falling with her breathing. Her hips showed the beginnings of a woman’s roundness, she would birth healthy children to someone someday, _‘If the gods are kind.’_ He laughed at the thought, an exhalation of breath scarcely louder than normal breathing.

She still faced away from him, but he noticed that her breathing had changed. She sucked in a breath and held it for what seemed an eternity, a terrified whine escaping the depths of her lungs. Her body convulsed inward, cowering. She held an arm aloft, to ward off an attacker he couldn’t see. Whimpers fell from her lips, incomprehensible words beseeching the gods. Her whole body jerked backward from an invisible blow, her shoulders pressed against his chest. Her cries grew louder, and she shook her head one way and the next. Petyr had no idea what to do. He knew it would not do well to try and wake her in the middle of a night terror. He opened his arms to maybe encircle her, indecision and uncertainty keeping his arms well away from her. She jerked again, her head cuffing him on the mouth, her elbows digging in to his ribs. “Petyr,” she moaned, falling limp into the mattress, “help me.”

He touched her arms tentatively, they were ice. The fire had long since died in the hearth. He got to his knees, the blanket falling from his bare shoulders. He cradled Sansa to him, shifting the blankets so they covered them both. One arm he draped over her midriff, pressing her close to him, the other he ran over her hair soothingly. “Sansa, it’s alright. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Her moaning ceased at his ministrations, her eyes rolled under purple lids. She turned in his arms, wrapping her free arm around his chest, clutching him for strength. He placed a dry kiss to her temple, rested his chin on her head, and repeated the words, over and over. Eyelashes tickled his chest as she stirred.

“Wha…? Petyr?” She put an arm’s length of distance between them, and he let her go. She straightened her gown under the blankets, her eyes grew wide at their proximity.

Petyr levered himself up on an elbow, his other hand resting on his side, grazing his stomach. “You were having a night terror, Sweetling. I was trying to calm you, waking you would have been disastrous for one or both of us.” She flinched as he reached out to wipe a tear from her cheek. “See?” He held the wetness in front of her eyes before wiping it on the sheets.

“It was Joffrey. He…” she trailed off, embarrassed. “It was only a dream. I apologize for waking you.”

“You didn’t wake me, Sansa.” They lay still for a long while, staring at one another. “I had a dream I haven’t had since I was a boy. It woke me.” He confessed. “You are completely blameless in every way, Sansa. The world is a cruel place.” Something strange was happening to him, he forced himself to stop speaking, suddenly unsure of where his mouth was taking him.

   “I’m not sure what you mean, Petyr.” Her eyes regarded him warily. It pained him.

“What I mean, Sweetling, is that everything that has happened to you is no fault of yours. You are the pinnacle of humanity. You are the essence of purity. The Game, and those who play it, have sought to use your light for their ends. Even me.” He swallowed hard, before continuing. “I brought you to safety, but that safety came with a price. I need you to accept your birthright to give me strong ties in the north. I have never played a card I didn’t have complete control over, and Sansa, I don’t want control over you. Truly, I only want to see you safe, happy. The love I bore your mother was young, and true. It makes this, whatever this is, difficult for me in a way I have never known. So now, I find myself at a crossroads.”

“What do you want from me, Petyr?”

“Honestly, Sansa, I’m more interested in what you might have of me. I don’t want to use you the same way everyone always has.” She squinted at him in disbelief, he held his hands up in defense. “This is as surprising to you as it might be to me. I haven’t cared for another living person in a _long_ time. In another world, a better world, you might have been my daughter. But this is not a better world.” She toyed with the end of her braid, not meeting his eyes. “What I want, Sansa, is to help you. Whatever ends you would achieve, I would help you see to it. I will teach you, and care for you, in any way you require.”

“Can I trust you, Petyr?”

Silence hung between them. “Better if you didn’t trust anyone, Sweetling. But I hope to be worthy of your trust.” He said, finally.

He could feel his eyelids getting heavier, Sansa’s seemed to be under the same spell, when she laughed softly.

“Petyr?”

“Yes, Sweetling?”

“I’ve never seen a naked man before tonight.”

A warm laugh rumbled in his chest. “I know, Sansa. I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

She frowned thoughtfully, letting her eyes slip closed. “I don’t think I was frightened. I think I was…” She trailed off unintelligibly, her breathing evened out, and Petyr was right behind her.

O-O-O-O-O

Petyr woke slowly. He felt surprisingly well rested, despite his interrupted sleep. His face was buried in a sea of brown, honey and cinnamon coaxing him into complete awareness. He could feel Sansa’s deep breathing in his ribs, her body flush against his. He had an arm draped across her stomach, her bare stomach. Her nightgown rode up, caught under her breasts, the rest of her body lay bare, conformed to him. Her skin was warm silk. He filled his lungs with her, before gently extricating himself from her slender form. Petyr sat up, turned toward the edge of the bed, allowing his feet to dangle. He rubbed his palms on his clothed knees, rolled his neck, stretched his shoulders.

“Good morning, Petyr,” Sansa mumbled from behind him. “Did you sleep well?”

O-O-O-O-O

Twenty minutes later found Petyr sitting across Sansa in the common room. A platter of eggs and sausages sat next to a tower of toast, a small dish of butter and marmalade, and a sweaty pitcher of juice. Littlefinger ate blindly, his thoughts entangled in the jagged trajectory of the last night’s events. Sansa, Alayne, exclaimed over every morsel, as though she’d never eaten breakfast. It was an act, but excruciating to Littlefinger. He paid his daughter with a look of waning patience. Sansa reined in her feigned exuberance, pouring herself more juice. She batted her lashes at him apologetically, he covered her hand with his own, rubbing a circle on her wrist in a fatherly manner. “It’s nice to see you excited, Sweetling. The next week will be spent on the road, I hope you keep your spirits until we reach the Eyrie.”

She responded with a wide smile, her mouth full of food. He grinned back in spite of himself. Their nonverbal conversation was interrupted by the inn keeper. He bowed to Littlefinger, nodding less formally to Alayne. “Everything you asked after has been seen to m’lord.”

Littlefinger eyed the man critically before nodding, sweat beaded on the man’s brow. _‘Good’_. “See to it that our mounts are saddled, we will be leaving shortly.”

The man licked his lips. “Of course, m’lord.”

Littlefinger turned back to Sansa, stepped around the table to offer her an arm. She took it, her skirts collected in one hand. Petyr grabbed her traveling cloak and draped it across her shoulders. She murmured her thanks. Settling his cloak about his own shoulders, they made their way out of the inn.

O-O-O-O-O

The day was bright and windy. Colossal clouds hovered overhead, rolling in from the coast. Petyr walked arm in arm with Sansa, toward the stables. She glanced his way, and he met her gaze, failing to stifle a chuckle. They stopped short of the stable, Petyr brought his index finger to the corner of her mouth. “You have a spot of marmalade on your face.” His heart stuttered in his chest when Sansa reflexively cleaned the marmalade from his finger, suckling gently. A blush crept up her face from under her cloak, her eyes widened at the act.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her face was crimson, a vaguely horrified expression turned her mouth sourly. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Petyr donned a playfully mocking smile. “Well the marmalade _was_ very good.” Her blush deepened. He started off again, clenching and unclenching his hands. _‘I will not touch her. I will not. I will not touch her. Gods damn it all.’_

Their mounts danced on the leads held by the stable hand. Sansa’s mare sidestepped the packhorse daintily, nuzzling Sansa’s outstretched palm. She kissed the mare’s nose, before accepting Petyr’s offer for help mounting. Littlefinger vaulted into his own saddle expertly, flipping two silver coins to the stable hand. He nudged the horse with his heels to get him moving, Sansa followed suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell you guys how much your comments and kudos mean to me. Every Tuesday bolsters my confidence, and shields me until the next update! 
> 
> If you have any questions, hit me up! I will try to answer/reply to anything, while also avoiding my own spoilers.
> 
> <3


	5. Fireside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr and Sansa are traveling toward the Eyrie along the High Road. They're dealing with the elements, and planning their next moves. Tensions mount.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none that I can think of (but please correct me if you find/see something)

   Sansa rambled idly as they made their way away from the inn, ever the doting daughter. Petyr paid no mind to her words, offering short responses where they seemed appropriate. Inhabited land gave way to wilderness, untouched, save for the High Road. Sansa dropped the façade.

   “Petyr, when we reach the Eyrie what shall I do?” She regarded him uncertainly. “I haven’t seen my aunt in a long time, but she might recognize me.”

   “We’ll not sustain the fiction of your identity when we reach the Eyrie, Sweetling.” He began, wondering how much of his plan to impart on her. “I had a great many things planned, but none of them involved keeping up appearances once I had brought you to safety.”

   She rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. “I’m not sure I want her to know who I am, truly. My namesake feels like a target. I’m not sure what to do with it, or that I want to. Alayne is easy, carefree.”

   “We have a week of travel ahead of us, Sansa. Let’s decide, together. There are several things to consider. What if we keep your identity secret from Lysa and she discovers you? She is a strangely capable woman, in her own way. She won’t tolerate lies.” Sansa’s face grew dark at the thought. They rode mostly in silence for the remainder of the day.

O-O-O-O-O

   The sun was setting at their backs when they dismounted and led their horses to a small copse of trees. They tied the horses to a tree by a small stream so they could drink or graze as they desired. Petyr saw to making a fire, while Sansa rummaged around their belongings for food. They ate plums and jerky, and filled their waterskins from the stream. The fire was a welcome warmth as the day gave way to night. _‘Winter is coming.’_

   Sansa stared across the fire at him, the light dancing on her face, casting a larger than life shadow on the trees surrounding them. “I’ve decided not to tell Lysa who I am.” She said.

   “Oh?” _‘Convince me, Sansa.’_

   Sansa nodded slowly. “If Lysa knows who I am, she would have me married as soon as she was able. I have no desire to be wed against my wishes, again. A bastard may not rise high in society, but I could at least find someone kind. Time and choice are things only Alayne can have.” She considered him carefully before continuing. “There are many things that I still need to learn, Petyr. I’m not very good with sums or other things. I was only ever interested in marrying a shining prince, living the life of a beautiful lady. I know manners of court, but that isn’t what I want from my life, anymore.”

   “Is there a question in there somewhere, Sweetling?”

   She steeled herself. “I would like you to teach me, Petyr.” Her eyes bore into his, her back was straight, her bearing confident.

 _Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.’_ Littlefinger let the question hang in silence. “I have several matters to attend in the Vale. I’ll be busy very frequently. I may call on you at odd hours, with little or no notice. Would that be problematic for you?”

   “I don’t think I would mind. I’ll find some way to occupy my time.”

   “I promise to help you hide your identity, but you must promise not to reveal yourself without speaking with me first.”

   She hid her relief carefully. “I promise, Petyr. It has been years since I last saw my aunt. I hope painting my hair is enough to convince her.”

   Petyr nodded in agreement. “Speaking of your aunt,” he cleared his throat before continuing, “there’s something you should know.”

   “What is it Petyr?”

   He was suddenly hyper aware of the trees around them. They stood mute, bending one way and the next at the behest of the wind. The dark pressed around them, the fire their only shield. Her hands gripped her skirts tighter as the moments stretched. For some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t meet her eyes. His palms moistened, his throat was suddenly dry. He mastered his bodily reaction, forcing himself to look at her. “I intend to wed Lysa.”

   Sansa’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, Petyr couldn’t be sure he saw it at all. After an agonizing pause Sansa said quietly, “Are you asking my permission, Petyr?”

   The fire spoke the volumes they didn’t. He bowed his head under her gaze, beaten. “Of course not, Sansa. I didn’t want to surprise you, is all.”

   “If she declines?” Her voice was emotionless. She unrolled her bedroll, Petyr put another log on the fire.

   “She won’t decline, Sweetling.” Littlefinger replied.

   “Oh?” She removed her cloak, draping it over herself as she lay out on the ground, propped on an elbow. She waited expectantly, watching Petyr lay out his bedroll perpendicular to hers, head to head. Petyr stretched out on his stomach, his head resting on folded arms.

   “When we were children, she and I had a relationship of sorts. Her father wouldn’t allow it; I was too low born. Lysa, though, has always been fond of me.” She rolled onto her stomach, her head inches from his own.

   “And are you?”

   “Am I what, Sansa?”

   “Fond of her.”

   “Sansa.”

   “Are. You. Fond. Of. Lysa? It is a simple question, Littlefinger.”

   The nickname was a blow, but he kept the shock from his face. Her eyes were sapphires, cold and cutting. He regained his composure, replying acidly. “Life is not a song, Sweetling. You have learned that, to your sorrow.” Her face grew harder if it were possible; he wanted the words back as soon as he’d said them. He turned onto his back, the stars shining brilliantly for a single moment before he closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, haunted by nightmares. He didn’t hear her break into a sob.

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr awoke to a cloudless sky. His back ached from being on the ground, and his head ached from the poor quality of sleep. He sat up, righting his cloak on his shoulders, before turning around to brush a hand over Sansa’s cheek. She stirred slightly, nuzzling his hand. The smile that spanned his face died as quickly as it came, when Sansa jerked violently into wakefulness, staring up at him with hard eyes. He pulled his hand away as though burned.

   Sansa sat up unhurriedly, turning her back to him. She pulled her hair over one shoulder, working tangles out with her fingers before braiding it. Petyr watched Sansa as she rolled up her bedding. He looked away, glaring at the remnants of the fire before mastering his expression.

   Littlefinger rolled up his own bedding, tying it to the packhorse slowly. He pulled two apples and a small wheel of cheese from the bags. Mounting his horse, he turned to pass Sansa half of the food, catching her eye as she clambered on her own horse almost unsuccessfully. Her jaw clenched as she accepted the proffered food, giving no word of thanks.

   They didn’t speak all day.

   He couldn’t fathom her mood. He understood _what_ made her upset, but not _why._ She was as passionate and fiery as Cat, leaving his head in a tumult the same way. He had pulled her from a bad situation, and admitted to using her. She had no reason to care for him. _‘Perhaps she’s upset for Lysa. Being betrothed to a man who doesn’t love her? She barely knows Lysa, though. That couldn’t be her reason, could it? Perhaps her perception of me has been impaired. Does that matter? Why does that matter?’_ His thoughts spiraled on and on and on, growing darker.

O-O-O-O-O

   When they pulled off the road to tether their horses his exterior remained impassive, but underneath he was a bundle of raw energy and frayed edges. They camped in the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon. The area was strangely devoid of trees, their horses tethered instead to a small stake Petyr drove into the ground. The sparse shrubbery around them did little to deter the wind. It groaned constantly, driving at them with a wintry bite. They huddled close around the fire, cloaks pulled tight, chewing their food woodenly.

   Petyr wished she’d break the silence – he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, she stared into the flames, ignoring the cold as best she could. Her braided hair was pulled over a shoulder, loose strands whipping her face. What thoughts circulated in her mind were a mystery to him. It was as if she'd halted any outward displays of emotion. Her silence was disconcerting.

   He rose to collect their bedding and extra blankets. He walked to Sansa, blankets held out, and, when she had accepted, he turned from her to collect firewood. There wasn't an overabundance of things to burn in the surrounding land. Petyr pulled up dead bushes and tall grass stalks, but for proper wood, he had to resort to wood they'd purchased for their journey.

   When he returned to the fire, Sansa was laid out under her cloak and blanket, her eyes closed. He fed the fire with the shrubbery, allowing it to gain heat before laying a thick log on top.

   He sat with his back against a large rock towering over his head. Sansa lay to his left, sleeping. _‘Or she’s a brilliant actress.’_ Littlefinger stared into the flames disregarding the biting cold. He considered his next steps. Three more days to the Bloody Gate, and another two-day’s travel up to the Eyrie. He needed Sansa’s input for planning, but she didn’t seem as if she’d speak to him any time soon. He turned his mind, instead, to things he could plan without his accomplice. The Proposal.

   Littlefinger considered his words, testing them out loud. “Lysa,” he whispered, “times have been incredibly eventful. Through it all my love for you has been…” _‘No.’_ “Lysa, for a flower as beautiful as you to be un plucked in this turbulent world is…” _‘No, no, no.’_ “Lysa, my dear. I have risen far in this world so that the world might consider me a suitable match for you.” _‘No!’_ “Gods damn it all!” Littlefinger gripped a fistful of his hair angrily. The words tasted too false on his lips. The words _were_ false, but they needed to _sound_ genuine. He needed simplicity. He needed…

   Sansa placed a hand on his, rising to sit in front of him, blocking the fire’s heat. She held his left hand in both of hers, her eyes never leaving his. “Lysa,” she intoned solemnly, “I have never been a man of great means. I am, however, a man of great love. I could never take Jon’s place, but I promise to work every day to be a man worthy of your hand.”

   “Sansa.” Petyr breathed.

   “Lord Baelish, if you’re going to get this right, you need to practice.” She chided him. The formality stung. Petyr nodded.

   “I have never been a man of great means. I am, however, a man of great love. If you’ll have me, I promise every day to be a man worthy of your hand.” He shivered despite himself, the chill seeped into his bones.

   Sansa’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You got it wrong. She needs to hear her name on your lips. She needs to know you love her, Lord Baelish. When the Lannisters killed her husband, they took everything from her, and from her child. She needs to find strength in the conviction of your love. You don’t have to mean it, but you _do_ have to sound like you do.”

 _'She believes it was the Lannisters who killed Jon…oh Sweetling. Too precious to live in such a wicked world.’_ “You’re right.” He ducked his head toward her in thanks. “Though, I fear if I don’t get warm, we may never reach the Eyrie. I apologize for waking you.”

   Something in her expression said that she had not been sleeping. His tone had a level of finality in it, he was supposed to lay down on his bedroll and commence sleeping, but he was rigid. Her eyes bore into his, and he couldn’t look away. They stared at one another for an eon compressed into four heartbeats. Then she was moving away, from him, from the fire, folding herself into her cloak, facing the forest.

   The horizon was beginning to brighten before Petyr found sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like the two chapter update!
> 
> I will post again next Tuesday!
> 
> Also thinking I'm going to make some chapter names...it seems prudent.


	6. Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr and Sansa stay a night at the Bloody Gate, and meet the Royces at the Gates of the Moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: None that I can see (Please let me know if you see something I don't)
> 
> The slow burn is real, guys, but it's getting there!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

   The day they reached the Bloody Gate, Sansa changed her behavior toward him. She was Alayne again, carefree, easily impressed, and talkative. Archers perched amidst crags in the cliffs towering on either side of the road – the Eyrie’s first line of defense.

   Petyr openly engaged in conversation with his ‘daughter’. It was a welcome change over the cloying silence from the last few days.

   “What is the Eyrie like, Father?”

   “Have you ever been to the Eyrie?”

   “Are the dungeons really as scary as they say?”

   “Where will I stay in the castle?”

   “Will I have a maid like other ladies?”

   “Will I be a lady now?”

   “Will there be a ball? I do _so_ hope to dance.”

   He answered her rapid-fire questions as completely as he was able before she moved on to the next. It was incredibly endearing. Their conversation gradually turned from the Eyrie to Riverrun. He found himself telling her about his life as a boy, the games he used to play with the Tully girls, how he and the young Edmund Tully became fast friends. She gazed at him with adoration, and he allowed himself to be lost in it.

   They talked for hours upon hours – until the sun began to set at their backs, and a tall structure loomed over them. Alayne exclaimed over the beautiful stonemasonry as the sight of the gate brought Littlefinger back to his senses, _‘what have I been blathering on about?’_ he thought back over the day’s conversation topics. Could he really be so stupid? He gave Sansa a sidelong glance, and if her small smirk was anything to go by, she’d found something she could use from him.

   “Who would pass the Bloody Gate?” The cry came from above them. Archers stood at the ready, arrows nocked and drawn, steel-tipped heads glinting in the dying light.

   Petyr glanced at Sansa, “Ser Donnel, Knight of the Gate” he explained simply. To Ser Donnel he cried “Petyr Baelish, and his daughter, Alayne Stone!”

   The knight lowered his arm, and the archers lowered their bows, releasing the tension on the strings. “You may pass the Gate.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm, and a door set into the gate itself opened with a groan. It was large enough for two riders to pass abreast. The Bloody Gate reached into the sky, several stories high. Two towers sat stood at the north and south side of the road, the gate spread between them. Sansa nudged her horse through the door, her expression awestruck.

   Littlefinger smiled widely in Sansa’s direction. “Welcome to the Vale of Arryn, Sweetling.”

   They handed their horses’ reins to a stable boy on the other side of the gate, first taking a meager meal of dried meat and stale bread from their saddlebags. Ser Donnel then lead them into a room spanning the inside of the north tower. Carved into the stone walls were small alcoves stacked one atop the other up, and up, and up. The alcoves themselves held straw mattresses, with white woolen blankets. It wasn’t a feather mattress, but after bedrolls on the hard ground, they would be heaven. The room was made to house a large host of soldiers in times of war. Currently, the previous shift of archers slept soundly in various places on the four walls. A ladder was cut into either side of the beds, one for going up and the other for coming down.

   Petyr and Sansa ascended the wall with the door they’d entered through, choosing the fifth and sixth beds. Petyr joined her on her bed to dine, being careful to not let any foodstuffs fall into the mattress. He studied her carefully, trying gauge her mood. She smiled at him, her eyes blazing with mirth. Like she knew something he didn’t. It irked him.

   Sansa drank deeply from the waterskin, her grin widening as water trickled from her lips. “Petyr, I can tell you’re worried.” He met her smug grin flatly.

   “What makes you think that, Alayne?”

   “You think I tricked you into telling me something important, something that I can use against you, and you don’t remember what it was. Because…well…”

   His interest was piqued, he regarded her with open curiosity, but she seemed to hesitate over the rest of her words. “Because what?” He’d given plenty of answers today. It was her turn.

   She stared past his shoulder, choosing her next words carefully. “Because today you were Petyr,” she gave him an apologetic look, “not Littlefinger.”

   She covered his hand with his, squeezing his fingers gently. “Littlefinger is a terrifying man. Capable of bringing a nation to its knees, with no concern for people. Littlefinger is the shield you wear when the world is harsh to you, not unlike Alayne.” She spoke softly, so as not to be overheard. “Petyr, is good and kind, compassionate. More so than his counterpart. Today you shared with me stories of Petyr, before Littlefinger existed. It was wonderful, I lo— I enjoy Petyr much more than Littlefinger.”

   Petyr was dumbstruck.

   “I hope I haven’t offended you, Petyr. I owe you much, for saving my life. I wouldn’t use anything you told me today against you, I am not so duplicitous. It was also nice to hear stories of my mother in her youth. It was very kind of you.” Her eyes swam in unshed tears. He brushed the tears from her face with gentle fingertips.

   “It was my pleasure, Sansa.” He swallowed hard against a rising lump in his throat. “You know…you are more beautiful than she ever was.” Catelyn was beautiful, Sansa was stunning. Every line, every curve, was soft and supple. Underneath her soft exterior was iron. Gods be good, he had gotten himself in over his head. Something drew him closer to her, crowding her space on the small mattress. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted as he moved closer. _‘No, no, no, no, no!’_ He was almost beyond caring. Almost. He changed his path, ghosting by her as he mounted the ladder to move up to his bunk.

   Rung in hand, he looked at her, gazing at him uncertainly. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Sweetling.” He collapsed in his bed, breathing shakily. His mind strayed to Sansa’s lips as his body sank into a dreamless sleep.

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr woke up late. He meant to only sleep for a few hours, but when he sat up on his mattress, the torchlight was amplified by sunlight. _‘Gods damn it all, blind me for a fool!’_ He peered over the side of his bed, whispering to wake Sansa. “Alayne!” No response. He got on the ladder, made his way to her bunk, to shake her awake. She wasn’t there.

   Panic flooded his body, singeing to his fingertips. He climbed down as quickly as he was able, leaping from the height of the last alcove. _‘Where is she?’_ Littlefinger stalked around the room, glancing in the alcoves he could see. _‘Has she been moved? Or taken? Maybe she’s run away.’_ He burst through the door to the outside, surveying his surroundings. He rushed to the door that lead inside the south tower.

   The heavy door made little sound as he pulled it open. The interior was sparsely lit. Long tables spanned the room, candles melting themselves in place on the wood. A spiral staircase began to the right of the doorway, spinning up and away to a second landing overhead. Several men sat at the tables, conversing quietly, or working their way through bowls full of soup.

   Sansa sat at the table farthest to the left, soaking bits of bread in her own bowl of soup. Petyr breathed a sigh of relief, seeing her safe.

   “Beautiful girls should not dine alone, Sweetling.” He quipped, seating himself across from her. There was a tightness about her eyes that Petyr couldn’t place, but she greeted him with a warm smile.

   “Girls whose fathers are slow to rouse must dine alone or starve.”

   “Well said, my dear.” He said, accepting a bowl of soup offered to him. They dined in comfortable silence.

   Petyr noticed the way Sansa’s eyes scanned the room. She seemed to be on guard, with so many men milling about, glancing at her appreciatively. The attention made her uncomfortable. _‘Still a blushing girl. When the world sees a budding woman.’_

   They left the building arm in arm.

   Petyr leaned close to her ear. “I’m sorry I did not wake this morning, Sweetling. You seemed under stress, sitting alone among so many strange men. Are you alright?”

   Sansa’s expression darkened. “I’ve been in a den of vipers ever since I left Winterfell, Petyr. It hardly matters anymore.”

   He grimaced morosely. “On the contrary, Sweetling, it matters very much.”

   They walked to the stables, where their horses waited in their stalls. The stable boy offered to saddle their mounts, in between a lot of bowing and scraping. Petyr and Sansa exchanged glances, saying nothing.

O-O-O-O-O

   That evening they came to the Gates of the Moon, a large castle at the base of the great mountain that housed the Eyrie. They would trade in their well-traveled mounts for goats to ascend the Mountains of the Moon, another half day’s ride climbing up and up into the mountain’s heights. They would arrive sleep deprived, but neither could fathom spending another night on a straw bed or worse.

   When they arrived at the Gates they were welcomed by a group of people – including Nestor Royce, his children Albar and Myranda, and several Keepers of the Gate. Nestor bent at the hip before Littlefinger, his sword hand covering his pommel, Littlefinger returned the gesture with a slight inclination of the head.

   “Lord Baelish, we’ve been expecting you.”

   Littlefinger did not miss the way Albar’s eyes raked over Sansa. He forced himself to meet Nestor’s gaze. “You do us honor, ser.” He motioned for Sansa to present herself, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “This is my daughter, Alayne. She will reside in the Eyrie with me for a time.”

   Nestor took her hand in his, brushing the back of her hand with his whiskers. “Alayne, it is truly a pleasure to behold such beauty.”

   Sansa flushed wondrously, curtsying to Nestor. “Thank you, Ser, you are too kind.”

   “Not at all, Dove. Tell me, child, how old are you? You seem to be of an age with my daughter Myranda.” He gestured for Myranda to come forward. She was fuller bodied than Sansa but shorter, brown of hair, and alluring in a practiced way. She looked to be nearing twenty, where Sansa was fourteen. To Petyr, it was like comparing a candle to the sun.

   Myranda curtsied deeply, her eyes never leaving Sansa’s face. “You are ruddy _gorgeous_ love.” She ignored her father’s admonishment from beside her. “No, but, you are. I would kill for your complexion. We must be friends.”

   Sansa gave Myranda a measured smile. _‘Perfect.’_ “I would love nothing more, Myranda.”

   “My son, Albar.” Albar came forward, falling to a knee in front of her. Myranda rolled her eyes.

   “My Lady. Your beauty is enrapturing.” His voice was that of a sword leaving its sheath, soft and rasping. His chin was shaved, but his side whiskers were black and thick, disappearing into equally black hair. Sansa motioned him to rise, her hand extended toward him, upturned. He caught her hand in his, rising to his full height, planting a slow kiss in her palm. Sansa giggled.

   Nestor tore his gaze from Sansa to speak, again, with Littlefinger. “We’ve had rooms prepared for you to sleep tonight—”

   “Alayne and I want to be in the Eyrie as soon as possible. We would only dine, before making our ascent.”

   Nestor eyed him critically. “That would hardly be appropriate, my Lord. The path is cold and dangerous during the day. At night, even more so. How can I convince you to wait a night?”

   Littlefinger squeezed Sansa’s shoulders, his eyes never leaving Nestor’s. “I’m afraid we cannot be swayed, Ser Royce.”

   Nestor ducked his head in assent. “Could I persuade you to take a basket instead of riding? It would put my mind at ease.”

   Petyr tilted his head toward Sansa, who looked between Nestor and himself, confused. “Taking a basket sounds preferable, Ser Royce. I daresay my daughter tires of riding.” Myranda squealed in excitement, taking Sansa by the hand, to lead her into the castle.

O-O-O-O-O

   The castle was bustling with activity, being the Arryn’s winter abode. Winter was coming. Several people cleared cobwebs, armed with long poles topped with goose feathers. Two people stood with heads close, Petyr overheard them discussing what the larder lacked for the impending season. Maids bustled by with arms full of clean linens.

   Myranda led them to a small dining hall, where they gathered at a long table. Petyr sat next to Sansa, across from Nestor and his children. Servants set the table with a loaf of fresh bread, a tray of sausages, and a dish of honey-glazed carrots. Sansa paid every ounce of attention to Myranda, and Myranda’s endless chatter. She ate daintily with her right hand, her left folded in her lap.

   Littlefinger drank deeply from his wine, discussing the Eyrie’s goings on with Nestor. Lysa, as it turned out, was becoming increasingly erratic. The political turmoil and sabotage rampant in the seven kingdoms made her hesitant to move from the protection of the Eyrie, to the warmer halls of the Gates of the Moon. Nestor had pleaded with her, begged her to consider Robert’s health in the winter to come. She had finally agreed, but wanted to wait until winter was at her doorstep. She lashed out over the smallest provocation. _‘Lysa has always been unbalanced.’_ The news was hardly surprising, given the subject. Littlefinger pressed his fingertips into the table, the last vestiges of his meal scattered about his plate.

   Suddenly, Sansa moved the hand in her lap to his knee, tightly gripping the fabric of his pants. He grunted at the unexpected gesture, affecting a cough to mask his surprise. He glanced sideways at her, and noticed a tightness about her eyes. After weeks of travel, it seemed Sansa had grown ill-accustomed to over stimulation. Myranda’s amicable tirade was exhausting her. He smiled into his goblet, draining his wine.

   “Nestor, I believe Alayne and I should like to begin our ascent.” Myranda stopped speaking as he said this, taking Sansa’s hand in both of her own.

   “Alayne, I hope to spend time with you when you winter here. I can introduce you to Mya, you’ll just adore her!”

   Sansa released her grip on his breeches, rising to embrace Myranda from across the table. Myranda rubbed her hands over Sansa’s arms, kissing each cheek. “Albar is very taken with you. Perhaps one day we’ll be sisters!”

   “I would be pleased to call you sister, Myranda. I have always wanted a sister.” She lied beautifully. Albar furrowed his heavy brow in concentration, avoiding eye contact with the pair. _‘Do not flatter yourself,_ boy, _you are not fit to lick the dirt from her boots.’_ Petyr thought, savagely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading
> 
> It warms my heart to know I'm doing something right!
> 
> I may post chapter 7 a few days early, I'm excited for you guys to see them actually in the Eyrie!
> 
> <3 comments and kudos are my sustenance


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr and Sansa make it (finally) to the Eyrie. Lysa gets her talons in him, and throws serious shade Sansa's way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: We've got another chapter sans warnings. I may just be writing a wimpy fic, guys. If you notice anything, please let me know =)

    The basket was massive. Meant for carrying large quantities of foodstuffs to the castle atop the Giant’s Lance, it could comfortably carry a horse. It had a rectangular base, shallow walls bowed outward, and places meant for netting to secure cargo. The Royces walked them to the base of the mountain trail, laden with blankets to make their ascent more comfortable. It would be bitterly cold. Sansa and Myranda exchanged goodbyes while Albar created a nest of sorts for them. Nestor let loose a raven, whose sole purpose in life was to ferry messages between the Gates of the Moon and the Eyrie. The bird leapt into the air, lost to their eyes after a heartbeat, the day’s light waning.

    “Come, Father.” Sansa slipped her fingers into his own, tugging him toward the basket. She settled in amongst the blankets, and he followed suit. Albar tucked another blanket around Sansa gingerly. The basket shuddered after a quarter of an hour or so, beginning to rise. Sansa clutched his Petyr’s arm, startled by the movement. He pressed a kiss to her temple, chuckling into her hair.

    The sun had set, and the moon would rise from behind the Lance. They were bathed in darkness, the basket rising steadily upward.

    “Tell me, my dear, how did you find Myranda?” Petyr inquired after a quarter of an hour. He felt Sansa shift uncomfortably beside him.

    “She was very…talkative. She reminds me of my friend Jeyne.” He wished he could read her expression.

    “You seem to have gotten on famously. Were I a kinder man, I may have let you stay with her at the Gates of the Moon. You may be sisters yet.” He smiled grimly at her, though she couldn’t see.

    Her voice was unconcerned. “If that is what you would do with me, Petyr, I’m not in a position to change it.” He mentally kicked himself.

    “I’m only teasing, Sweetling. Albar Royce is not fit to wed Alayne Stone, much less Sansa Stark.”

    They reached the top after an hour and a half, nearly frozen. A platform was slid underneath the basket. Soldiers reached out to help Petyr and Sansa from their nest. Littlefinger disengaged himself from the blankets with as much dignity as he could; treading the snowy ground carefully, but on his own. Sansa allowed herself to be led by a mail-clad man, swathed in the blanket Albar had tucked about her person.

    They were brought into the castle through a small door at the end of a short hallway. Candles, sat in sconces, led the way to a staircase. There were two doors at either side of the stairs, one led, presumably, to the kitchens. The other led to the larder. Petyr walked beside Sansa up the stairs, through several hallways to the Crescent Room, where their cloaks were taken by serving men.

    “Lord Baelish, we’ve been expecting you,” said a voice in the shadows, coming closer. “You, and your beloved daughter.” Maester Colemon bowed low to Sansa, his chain dragging across folded hands. “We’ve prepared temporary apartments for each of you; I expect Lady Arryn will have you relocated in the morning.”

    “We thank you for your hospitality, Maester,” replied Littlefinger smoothly. “I will have a bath before turning in for the night, as would Alayne.”

    Sansa stepped forward gingerly. “That would be lovely.”

    The Maester waved a hand to two serving women, who scurried off to prepare their baths. A serving man brought two steaming goblets of wine, to ease the chill in their bones while they waited. The castle was quiet in the night, every sound echoed long after its source was silenced.

    After a short time, Sansa was beckoned away by a woman with towels draped over an arm. Littlefinger answered her questioning look with a nod. _‘Here you are safe. At last.’_ He followed a serving man to a small washing room.

O-O-O-O-O

    The bath was full and steaming. The heat enveloped him completely, as he washed the week’s travel from his tired bones. He contemplated his next move carefully. When would he propose to Lysa? In the morning? Over breakfast? Publicly? In a private Solar? He would have to seize the first available opportunity. Lysa was her own style of chaos, not something you could plan for, only around. Spontaneity wasn’t his strong suit, but he would make it work. He was glad to have a night away from Sansa, in which to organize his fractured thoughts.

    The room they’d set up for him was small. It was temporary, for he’d be sleeping very close to Lysa after tomorrow. It had a simple four poster bed, draped in cream colored blankets and matching curtains. He’d only surveyed the room for a moment when there was a knock at his door.

    “The Maester asked me to bring these to you, made to your specification m’lord.” She was a comely woman, her long grey hair in a simple braid down her back. She carried a parcel tied with silk ribbon. He accepted the cloth graciously, turning to allow the door to shut behind him. He sank into an armchair by the fire. The parcel contained clothes that had been tailored for his arrival. There were two long coats, three pairs of breeches, seven shirts, five pairs of socks, five pairs of underwear, and a heavy cloak. One of the coats was black with tight scrollwork in dark green all over, the other was an impossibly dark blue, with silver flourishes around the cuffs and collar, the cloak was a dark grey, intricately worked with black needlework. He wondered if Sansa was finding her own parcel of clothes to be suitable.

    He pushed Sansa from his mind. In his life of carefully calculated choices, she was the thread. The thread that, when pulled, unravels the entire garment. He scrubbed his face with his hands, allowing himself to let his guard down in the stillness of the empty room. He sneered into the flames that were crackling in stark contrast to his sudden mood. He stood, pushing the armchair back with his legs, and tugged his shirt off over his head. He folded back the covers on the four-poster bed, slipping between them. The feathered mattress was a godsend.

    He lay still for hours, and could not find sleep; his thoughts spiraling continually in his mind. He thought of his conversations with Alayne versus the conversations he had with Sansa, the feel of her arm in his, the way it felt to have her chest pressed up against him, he thought of cinnamon and honey. He rolled onto his stomach, wrenching his thoughts away from Sansa. Instead, he counted as high as he could by prime numbers, carefully visualizing them in his mind’s eye. _‘Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-one, thirty-seven…’_ He reached three hundred forty-nine.

O-O-O-O-O

    The morning bell was carried through the halls, to awake those who slumbered nearby. Petyr was already awake, razor in hand, shaping his beard to his preferences. He was mopping the lather from his face when someone rapped lightly on his door. He was clad in an unlaced shirt and breeches, but he shrugged the black coat over an arm as he opened the door. It was Sansa.

    “Father! Forgive, me, I thought you’d be ready at this hour.” She was resplendent, in a well-fitted, low-cut gown of dark green with emerald embroidery down the sleeves. Her hair had been combed after her bath, and spilled in soft waves around her face. She wore a silver necklace with a mockingbird that dangled torturously close to her breasts.

    “I apologize, Sweetling. Come in, I’m nearly ready.” He ushered her inside, closing the door behind him. He searched for words, sitting on the bed to pull on his boots. “Did you sleep well?”

    Sansa seemed to consider her words carefully. “I had a hard time finding sleep. When I finally _did_ sleep, I was cold, but the bed was very comfortable.”

    He stood up, buttoning his coat as he approached her. “Sleeping in a new place can sometimes be difficult. I found sleep to be elusive as well.”

    She stared up at him from the armchair, standing within arm’s reach. “That coat looks nice on you, Petyr. It brings out your eyes.” She stood, invading his space. “You shaved your beard.” She reached up as though to brush his face, but recoiled, remembering herself.

    He caught her lifted hand in his, placing a not-so-bristly kiss on her wrist. “Every lady in Westeros pales in comparison to your exquisite beauty, Sweetling. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the dining hall?”

    She curtsied minimally. “Why yes, Father, it would be my pleasure.”

    They reached the High Hall in little time, but found it empty save the serving man that had brought them wine the night prior. He bowed low before them, explaining that the Lady Lysa has asked them to dine with her in her solar. He spun on a heel, leading the way to Lysa’s apartments, several floors above the High Hall.

O-O-O-O-O

    The serving man, called Wil, bade them farewell at the door, scurrying off to resume his duties. Inside they found Lysa sat at a small table with her son, Robert. Lysa nursed a cup of tea, the crumbs of her breakfast on her plate. Robert stared sulkily at his untouched plate of eggs and sausages, turning occasionally to gaze forlornly at his mother. Beside Robert, in a chair of its own, sat a ragged doll.

    When Lysa noticed them, she rushed to greet them. “Petyr!” she squealed, throwing her arms about his neck, nearly strangling him. She covered his face in kisses, beginning innocently enough, and ending in a fashion that caused Sansa to look away. “And you must be Alayne. I’ve not heard much of you.” Her tone toward Sansa was chilly in comparison.

    Sansa met Lysa’s eyes for a moment before dropping her gaze to the floor, falling into a clumsy curtsy. “Yes, Lady Arryn. I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell.”

    “Yes, I can see that.” Lysa’s gaze raked over Sansa critically. “Tell me, your mother, what was she? I’m assuming one of Petyr’s whores.”

    Sansa gripped her skirts for a heartbeat before dropping another curtsy. “Yes, my Lady. She died when I was little.”

    Lysa sniffed disdainfully. “No doubt from some disease. It’s a wonder you exist at all.”

    Littlefinger took Lysa by the hand, spinning her to meet his eyes. “It was a moment of weakness, in a lifetime of abstinence waiting to be with you. Our coupling meant nothing. That she fell pregnant has been a fortunate accident, however. Alayne is a young woman of remarkable wit, and has cared for any and all children born to those in my employ.”

    Littlefinger covered Lysa’s sneer with a tender kiss. “I wanted to introduce you to Alayne, but that is not all.”

    Lysa’s eyes opened in curiosity as Littlefinger sank to a knee before her. _‘Here it goes.’_

“Lysa,” Littlefinger began, “I have never been a man of great means. I am, however, a man of great love. I could never take Jon’s place, but I promise to work every day to be a man worthy of your hand. If you’ll have me.” He delivered the rehearsed words with carefully nuanced honesty, affecting an expression of open devotion. Lysa forgot her disapproval of Sansa in an instant.

“Yes! Yes! Of course, Petyr! You know I love you so! I have always loved you!” She pulled him to standing, wrapping him in her arms. She buried her face in his neck, hot tears spilling into his new clothes. He nuzzled her hair, but his gaze remained on Sansa, standing awkwardly in the background. His stomach clenched at the thunderously impassive look on her face.

Breakfast was forgotten. Lysa barked orders at any passing servants, telling them to ready her best gown, dress Sweetrobin for a ceremony, called for the Septon, and a dozen other things she could think of in preparation. Littlefinger was beside her through all of it, repeating her orders when they weren’t being followed quickly enough, inclining his head in sympathy when Lysa wouldn’t see. She left him only when her personal maids came to take her to dress. She bade him farewell with a drawn-out kiss, invading his mouth with her tongue.

He traced thumb and forefinger over his mouth as she walked away, steeling himself.

“It’s a pity I won’t have time to bathe before the ceremony. I feel as though I need a bath.” Sansa’s voice was for him alone.

He couldn’t find a reply to that, he instead wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pressed a fatherly kiss on her temple. “You should find your new quarters more befitting a woman of your station, Sweetling.” He breathed cinnamon and honey for a heartbeat longer, before leaving her there, alone.

O-O-O-O-O

The ceremony itself was a brief event. With none but themselves, the Septon, Sansa, Sweetrobin, and a miserable looking maid watching over the unruly boy. Lysa interrupted the Septon several times, which he bore with the patience of a man long since accustomed to Lysa, and before long Petyr was draping his cloak over Lysa’s thin shoulders. Sansa made no comments throughout the ceremony, except to relieve the maid being tugged on by Robert. She knelt down to speak with the boy, and whatever she said seemed to work a miracle. He sat in her lap happily through the vows, tugging on her hair.

They feasted afterwards on suckling pig, roast lamb, and a veritable cornucopia of vegetables swimming in succulent gravy. Petyr worked through his plate slowly, playacting at savoring the food. It was all ashes in his mouth. He drained several goblets of wine, for the night was not yet over for him. Sansa, he noticed, ate very little, if anything at all. When the meal was over, Sansa and Robert were led from the dining hall to be shown to their rooms in the Moon Tower.

Lysa dragged Petyr from the hall the moment it was appropriate to do so, speaking coyly into his ear as they walked to her bedchambers. A fire was roaring in the hearth when they crossed the threshold, and a tray of desserts had been left on a table near the bed. The room was lavishly decorated, built of weirwood, and draped in bolts of midnight blue velvet chased with silver falcons.

“Undress me, husband,” Lysa commanded.

He obliged her, untying the corset about her waist with feigned reverence.

“Faster, Petyr!” she whined.

He ripped the fabric from her frame, leaving her bare. Before he could take her in, she leapt into the bed, and under the covers, giggling like a much younger woman. Littlefinger forced himself to smile, stepping toward the monumental four poster bed. Driven by curiosity, he uncovered the tray of sweets. The silver platter held an assortment of chocolates, and chocolate covered fruits; sweet breads, and lemon cakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate you guys hanging with me so far.   
> I cannot wait for chapter 8, I'm more excited about 8 than almost any other chapter, honestly guys.  
> I'm writing a Nano this month, so I will only post on Tuesdays (no extras) for fear of getting behind (I'm currently way ahead, I like to keep it that way)
> 
> Comment/Kudo if you desire
> 
> *kiss*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr and Lysa's wedding night goes about as well as one could expect. 
> 
> What he doesn't account for is how his marital status might affect Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Light BDSM  
>  Attempted suicide/Contemplated suicide
> 
> Please keep your own level of comfort in mind before you read. 
> 
> Without
> 
> Further
> 
> Ado

   Littlefinger gazed at Lysa as he slowly unbuttoned his coat. His fingers skimmed the fabric teasingly, he curled his lips into a predatory grin.

   “Petyr, please hurry,” Lysa begged.

   He made a ‘tsk’ sound at her. “Lysa, this is one of two suitable coats in my possession, it would be unwise to tear it.”

   Lysa leaned up on an elbow, the sun’s dying light accentuating her sharp features. Hawkish. “I will order the seamstress to drape you in one hundred coats of spun gold if you get in bed quickly. I need you _now_ , Petyr.”

   Littlefinger schooled his expression to something resembling hunger, and divested himself of clothing in under a minute. Lysa’s eyes studied his body. _‘Hawkish indeed.’_ He remembered words he’d said a lifetime ago, they echoed in his mind as he mounted the bed. _‘I’m not going to fight them; I’m going to fuck them. That’s what I know, that’s what I am.’_

   He crawled to her, atop the covers, his eyes burning dangerously. She shivered under his gaze. She sat up to kiss him, hissing when he gripped a handful of her hair to bite her throat. Lysa liked it rough, that much he remembered. He peeled the covers from her, exposing her nakedness to the cooler air in the room. He straddled her waist to gaze at her body.

   The sun’s light had gone from the Vale, but the roaring fire in the hearth painted them in orange. She was tall and thin, in an almost gangly way. Her breasts sagged, where once they’d been pert, and practically perfect. Some of the color had waned from her hair, the red now seeming brittle somehow. Her eyes were larger than Catelyn’s, muddied blue, and in them was a spark of madness. He cupped her face in his hands, crushing her lips with his.

   There was no hesitancy. No pause. No decorum. The kiss was raw, and savage. Littlefinger was careful to keep his tongue out of her mouth, it having been nearly severed by her teeth in the past. Lysa was a woman who believed that ferocity was the only way to show passion. So, he was ferocious. He bruised her mouth with his own, sucking her lip into his mouth to rake his teeth over it. He slowed slightly when he tasted blood, hot and salty on his tongue. He wasn’t sure who’s it was.

   He moved the hands about her face to her neck, pressing fingers into the veins under her jaw to stem the blood flow. Her pupils dilated impossibly, as he counted ten seconds. He released the veins and ground his cock against her nub simultaneously, eliciting a guttural moan from Lysa.

   He had one hand on either side of her head, pulling her hair, no doubt. She didn’t care, and neither did he. His name fell from her lips louder and louder. He swallowed her words with his mouth, grinding against her again. She pulled away. “Fuck me now, Petyr!”

   Something primal uncoiled from him. The weeks’ travel with Sansa had left him raw in ways he didn’t care to explore too closely. He needed release as badly as she wanted him to give it to her. Littlefinger obliged.

   He wrenched her legs apart uncaringly, positioning himself at her entrance. She mewled into a pillow when she felt the tip of his cock at her folds. He waited only a heartbeat before sheathing himself completely. She screamed.

   The pace he set was rigorous. He pumped into her brutally, his thighs slapping into hers with a wet sound. Her shrieks were enough to wake the entire castle, but they wouldn’t come. Not tonight. He felt a pressure building inside him, despite the unseemly racket she was causing. He placed one hand on her throat, cutting off the blood supply one handed, and the other he placed over her navel, working her nub in slow circles with his thumb. He continued to plow into her, counting the seconds in his head, increasing pressure on the finger circling her. He let go of her neck with a final thrust, spilling his seed into her with a cry. She went over the edge splitting the air with her shrill voice. Her walls clenched around him, and her nails dug welts into his back.

   He pulled out of her, leaning over her to grab a handful of chocolates. He placed one on his tongue, tasting peppermint, and another in her mouth. _‘That’ll stop your incessant moaning.’_ She chewed the chocolate hungrily, toying with the hair on his chest.

   “Petyr. _Petyr_. That was _marvelous_.” She was flushed, winded, and laughing.

   “I do what I can,” Littlefinger replied.

   There was a faint knock at the door. Littlefinger looked at Lysa questioningly, before rising to don his breeches and shirt. The knocking grew more urgent as he pulled on his boots. He walked to the door, as the knocking became, somehow, more urgent and punctuated with a keening cry.

   “Mummy! Let me innnnnnn!” Littlefinger opened the door to grant Robert into the chamber. _‘What in the world?’_

   Lysa sat up in the bed to accept the boy in her open arms as he flung himself at her.

   “What is it my darling? My strong boy, what’s wrong?” She flattened his hair with one hand, the other rubbing his back.

   The boy sniffed mightily, rubbing an eye. “I’m hungry, mummy.”

   “Yes, love, one moment.” Lysa looked at Littlefinger. “Petyr, there are chambers down the hall from this one, Jon’s old chambers. You’ll find them quite suitable for you, I’m sure.” It was a dismissal.

   She pulled Robert into the bed with her, looking thoroughly debauched, and he began suckling at her breast noisily. Littlefinger schooled his expression into love and devotion, crossing the room to plant a kiss at her hairline. “Until the morrow, my love.” He put one arm in his coat, leaving the room as quickly as he could.

O-O-O-O-O

_Jon Arryn would roll over in his grave if he could see the state of his heir. What_ is _Lysa thinking? I must do something about this.’_ He made his way to his chambers, in want of a quick wash. The heavy door swung inward noiselessly, giving way to a room more suited to his own personal tastes. _‘Lysa must have had it decorated in a hurry.’_ The bed and chairs were made of a dark wood Petyr couldn’t name. Two armchairs sat by the fire separated by a small wooden table with clawed feet. A large wooden trunk inlaid with silver and animal bone sat at the foot of the bed. Inside were his other clothes, clean and folded neatly. _‘Three coats._ ’ The bed was draped in dark grey silk worked with a lighter grey thread, and decorated with hundreds of pillows. He shoved all but a handful of the pillows to the floor. A letter sealed with a glob of wax had been hidden under the mountain.

   He brought the letter before the fire to read, breaking the seal with a boot-knife:

_My dearest Petyr, soon to be husband. I hope you find these chambers to your liking. Perhaps, after our wedding night, you will take me in every way imaginable in this room. I have dreamed of your hands so long; I will not be easily sated. I am sure you are up to the task. I am glad we endeavored to kill Jon so that we may be together at last. Sleep well, husband, I may come to call._

_Your Love,  
Lysa_

   Littlefinger tore the paper to shreds, suddenly wishing he had not counted seconds with his hands about Lysa’s throat. He would _relish_ the light leaving her eyes. _‘She wrote it in a_ letter _. She admitted it in_ writing _. She put my_ **name** _on it…in writing…a confession…where any might have seen it.’_ He flung the bits of parchment into the fire, fighting the desire to stalk back to her apartments and pitch her and her spawn off the mountainside.

   Instead, he stripped himself bare, leaving his clothing in a heap on the floor. He grabbed a washbasin and a pitcher of cold water. Using a wet woolen cloth, he scrubbed vigorously at his hands, face, and cock to clean himself of the deed. The chill of the water managed to cool some of his ire. _‘The seal was unbroken. It wasn’t found. I will need to handle Lysa, however. This sort of oversight cannot be tolerated.’_

   Petyr donned a clean shirt and breeches, and slipped silently from his room to visit Sansa’s. He was certain he’d not seen her eat anything of value at dinner, so he’d pinched the lemon cakes from the silver tray. Sleep would not come soon for him anyway.

O-O-O-O-O

   The walk wasn’t long, but Petyr regretted forgetting his boots in his room. His feet were ice by the time he stood in front of her door. He held the cakes in one hand, and eased the door open with the other. He didn’t want to startle her awake by knocking.

   What he saw left him momentarily stunned.

   Sansa stood in the far corner of the room facing out of the window. The gown he’d had made for her had been slipped off her shoulders, exposing her breasts. The light of the fire seemed to glitter on her scarred back. She held her hands in front of her, clutched around a thin dagger, pointed at her heart. The words left him before he could stop them.

   “There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in the world, it would be a shame to damage yours.”

   Sansa whirled to face him, the dagger clattering to the floor in her surprise.

   “Petyr!” she shrieked, covering her breasts with one arm, trying to pull up the tight dress with the other.

   He smiled to break the tension, it didn’t reach his eyes. “I brought lemon cakes.” The silence stretched for a full minute.

   “Will you turn your back so that I may clothe myself properly, Petyr?” she asked irritably. _‘Fine, game over, now we deal with this.’_

   “I will not, Sweetling. In fact, you’ll be very lucky if I leave this room tonight, because I cannot trust you to keep yourself alive when I am not present.” She withered under his suddenly heated gaze. “Sansa, what were you thinking?”

   She opened her mouth as if to reply, but thought better of it. He shut the door behind him, locking the bolt. He walked over to her, placing the lemon cakes on the bed, and motioned for her to hold her hair out of his way. He untied the gown slowly, closing his eyes when it was loose enough for her to push over her backside, despite his words. He sat on the bed fumbling for the nightgown he’d seen there. She accepted the gown he held out for her, and called his name when she had it on.

   He favored her with a hard look. “Sansa. Why did you want to harm yourself?” _‘You were this close to losing her.’_

   “I don’t know,” she replied lamely. “I couldn’t sleep, and Lysa is _loud_ , and she hates me, and you—my life is a joke, Petyr…and I don’t think it’s funny anymore.” She sank to her knees beside the bed, her breaths coming fast and shallow.

   He lifted her chin with a finger, and levered her up so he could wrap her in an embrace. Then she cried. He pulled her legs over his, and rocked his body slowly with her, until the tears subsided. He pressed feather-light kisses to the top of her head, murmuring sweet nothings into her hair.

   “Sansa,” he said, putting her at arm’s length so he could see her face, “your life isn’t a joke. You are a light source in this world of madness and darkness. I don’t know how to make it easier for you to move through it, without teaching you to be like me. If that’s what you want, Sweetling, I am incapable of telling you no.” Petyr massaged her shoulders with one hand, and the other brushed her cheekbones, her jaw, her clavicle, her shoulders. He stopped when he felt her shiver under his fingers. Sansa pulled his hand into her lap, folding each of her hands over it, and stroked his palm.

   “I’m sorry, Petyr.” She sounded exhausted. _‘Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. This whole world is sorry. Don’t.’_

   “Sansa, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She snorted disbelievingly. He moved the hand massaging her shoulders to tug her hair gently. She peered up at him, spots of color blossomed on her cheeks, their noses almost touching. “I have never been more honest with you, Sansa. I do not know what I would do without you.” _‘I think it might actually kill me.’_

   They stared at one another for a long time. They were close enough to breathe the same air. He resisted the temptation to incline his mouth to hers, it was a close battle. Instead he made space between them, offering her one of the lemon cakes he’d brought.

   She motioned to decline the sweet, but he insisted. “You ate nothing at breakfast and nothing after the ceremony. Unless you consumed an ox when I wasn’t present, I’m afraid I must insist.” As an afterthought, he said, “As your father, that is my right.”

   She glared at him jokingly, accepting the cake. She took a small bite, and he relished the way her mouth twisted happily around the morsel.

   “I haven’t been hungry today, Petyr,” she confessed, flour from the cake dusting her lips. She ate without complaint. When she’d finished, she offered him the second cake. He took a small bite before turning it back to her to finish. She shook her head.

   “Sansa, you have two options.” His eyes sparkled dangerously. “You can eat this cake without comment, or I’ll put it in your nose.”

   “You wouldn’t.”

   “I would,” he said, punctuating the statement with a dab of cream on the tip of her nose.

   She clutched his wrist in both hands, biting the remaining cake in half. She made an affronted noise from the back of her throat, her mouth full. Petyr chuckled heartily. When she swallowed, he pushed the remaining morsel between her lips before she could protest. She subconsciously licked the crumbs from his fingers as he pulled them out. He pinched the icing from her nose, placing the same thumb and forefinger in his own mouth. _‘Gods. Damn. It. All.’_

   “You said you couldn’t sleep,” Petyr stated, the last vestiges of lemon leaving his tongue.

   “I can’t. I lie there and try to find sleep, but it doesn’t come no matter how tired I am.”

   He stood suddenly, motioning for her to slip under the covers. She complied, snuggling into her pillows while he pulled a chair over to face her. He grinned at her look of confusion.

   “Would you like me to teach you a game, Sweetling?”

   “Ye—what kind of game, Petyr?” she answered quickly.

   “This is a game I’ve played since I was a boy,” he began, “it involves numbers. What is your favorite number, Sansa?”

   She thought for a moment. “Three.”

   “Three? Why three?”

   She thought for a moment more. “I don’t really know, Petyr. Three is just sort of perfect, isn’t it? If you have three stones…there is a middle…it just…seems nice?”

   He smiled at her, hands folded under his chin. “Three it is, then. I want you to close your eyes, and imagine the number three.”

   Sansa closed her eyes; he watched the way her eyes rolled under her eyelids, lines of concentration coming over her face. “Okay?”

   “Now, I want you to count _by_ threes. You can do so out loud for the start.”

   “Three…six…nine…twelve…fifteen…eighteen…twenty-one—Petyr what’s this for?”

   “I want you to close your eyes and say the numbers in your mind. When you say the number in your mind, I want you to see the number on the backs of your eyelids. You will be asleep in minutes. Trust me it works every time.”

   “I’ll try, Petyr.”

   “I’m here for you if it doesn’t work.”

   She quieted, eyes closed, fidgeting minutely. He watched her settle further into the blankets. He watched her breathing even out. He watched her eyelids flutter erratically, and sweat bead on her brow. He watched her curl into herself, her face slack. He watched her until his eyes burned from watching. _‘What do you want, Sweetling? What would you have of me?’_ He retrieved the knife from the foot of her bed before unbolting the door and slipping into the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed that!
> 
> The story is definitely gaining intensity!
> 
> Comment/Kudos as you would, I love your love.
> 
> Also, if you have any questions, feel free to ask!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr and Sansa begin settling into their roles in the Vale. Lysa cannot help but hate Alayne Stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic depictions of sex acts

    Littlefinger woke to a mouth wrapped around his cock. He was swathed in grey blankets, his hands white knuckled in the sheets. His breathing came in pants and gasps, his eyes fluttered in purple lids. He was close.

_'Gods damn it all.’_ The only thing that fell from his lips was a groan. He levered himself up on his elbows, gazing down the blanket at the form bobbing underneath. For a blinding second he thought Sansa had snuck into his room and answered his more depraved dreams. Then the words _‘I may come to call’_ floated through his mind. It was Lysa. He growled savagely, reaching under the blankets to take a handful of Lysa’s hair when he felt her teeth graze his cock. Littlefinger placed his feet on the bed to have better leverage, and pumped furiously into Lysa’s hungry mouth. He was there in five thrusts, spilling into her mouth, he didn’t let her move.

    Littlefinger fell back into the pillows with a groan, kneading his eyes with sweaty palms. Lysa came out from under the blankets, drizzling his seed onto his stomach.

    “Good morning, husband,” she said, attempting to be seductive. Her hand splayed across his chest, smearing the wetness into his chest hair.

    He forced his face into a blissful grin. “Good morning, pet.” _‘It is much too early for this.’_

    “Did you sleep well?” she asked, nuzzling his neck. He could smell himself on her.

    “I did.” _‘I would have, had it been uninterrupted,’_ He wrapped her in a one-armed hug. “The furnishings in this room are in very good taste, Lady wife.” He indicated the silk draped around their bodies.

    She sat up clapping her hands girlishly. “You like them! I chose them special for you. The grey really sets off your eyes. You look _delicious_.” She looked him over, sleep still clouding his eyes, body flushed with sex.

    Littlefinger slipped out of the bed, crossing the room to grab the washcloth he’d used to clean up previously. “How is Robert?” He asked, the cold, wet cloth making him grimace.

    Her face slipped for a moment. The happy, sensual expression cracked, showing the haunted, frenzied woman underneath. “He’s doing well, Petyr…He asked to sit next to you at breakfast.” She got off the bed, straightening her gown around herself. The garment was sheer, voluminous, and seemingly made of spun gold. Every move Lysa made caused the skirts to billow around her.

    “I would like that,” he lied. No doubt the boy toyed with his food, waiting until he found his mother’s breast accessible. Still, it wouldn’t be prudent to offend his wife before he found the appropriate time to kill her. “I’ll get dressed and wake Alayne. We’ll meet you and Robert in the High Hall.”

    Her face fell at the mention of Alayne, but she didn’t protest. “Dine with me in my solar. I haven’t eaten in the High Hall since Jon…” she trailed off uncertainly. _‘Oh yes. Jon.’_

    “Since Jon was murdered, by the _Lannisters_ ,” Littlefinger placed indelicate emphasis on the name, stepping forward to grip her upper arms, “we need only wait for them to _incriminate_ themselves to strike.” She did not miss the meaning of his words, her eyes widened at the implication. He interrupted her sudden stammering with a harsh kiss. _‘Don’t you ever name me in writing again, woman. I am not someone you can play this game with.’_

O-O-O-O-O

    Littlefinger watched Lysa leave the room, her skirts the last to disappear around the door. He shut the door with a heavy hand, leaning against the wood to untangle his thoughts. _‘She wrote it down on paper. On paper.’_ His cryptic warning would not be enough. Lysa played at being dim, he knew the letter for what it was. She was attempting to subtly remind him of that which she believed she held over him. _‘Tell them, Lysa. I will deny it. I will weave a tale so believable, and you will have hanged yourself.’_

    He was fuming. In the quiet of the room he collected himself as he dressed. _‘No matter the situation, never let your anger overpower your mind.’_ He slipped on his breeches, leaving them loose about his hips. He pulled a clean shirt over his head, exhaling as he pushed his hands through armholes. He tucked the shirt into the breeches, pressing one fabric underneath the other. He laced his breeches slowly, pulling the strings just tight enough, before tying a perfect bow. He left his shirt untied, his chest hair exposed to the morning chill. He donned the dark blue coat, straightening the cuffs to meet with the shirt underneath. He worked the dozen small buttons slowly, counting each one. When he pinned the mockingbird to his collar, Littlefinger was the picture of composure. _‘Now to wake Alayne. Sansa.’_

    He slipped silently into her room, shutting the door behind him. Sansa was still asleep. He thought to wake her quickly, but faltered as he approached her bed. Her breathing was even, soft ins and outs that touched a single lock of her hair. In and out. In and out. There were no creases of worry or concern in her face, she didn’t look a day older than her fourteen years. It was easy to forget how young she was when she wasn’t sleeping. Her hands were folded together in front of her head, almost in prayer, her fingertips pressed into one another. Petyr drank in the sight of her.

    The moment ended, Sansa’s eyelids fluttered prettily as she began to wake. “Petyr?”

    Petyr smiled widely at her. “Good morning, Sweetling. Did you sleep well?”

    She sat up, covering a yawn with a hand. “I did. The number game worked very well. I believe I made it to one hundred sixty-eight before falling asleep.” Her face scrunched in sleepy concentration. “I beg your pardon, Petyr, but what has brought you here so early?”

    He contemplated telling her that he’d been by her side all night; that he’d left only long enough to change his clothes, but squashed those thoughts. “I came to collect you for breakfast, Sweetling. Lysa has asked us to dine with her in her solar. I’ll leave you to change.”

    Sansa swung her feet over the edge of the bed, rolling her eyes at Petyr. “Don’t be silly, just turn your back. I won’t be but a moment, and I’ll need help with the laces anyway. I don’t have a handmaiden.”

    Petyr spun to face the opposite wall, his hands resting awkwardly at his side. Behind him, he could hear Sansa slip from the bed, bare footfalls to her own trunk. He could hear her unlatch the trunk, a soft snap, and the rustle of garments. He heard the telltale sound of her nightgown hitting the floor in a heap, and when he heard her stretch; her sharp intake of breath and slow exhale, he ignored the gooseflesh pimpling his skin. He counted backwards from five hundred by sevens, shouting the numbers in his brain. _‘Five hundred, four hundred ninety-three, four hundred eighty-six, four hundred seventy-nine, four hundred seventy-two...’_ He was subtracting seven from ninety-four when Sansa called his name. Petyr spun to face her, his expression neutral.

    “Will you help me with the laces, Petyr?” She wore a gown of light blue, embroidered with clusters of elaborate flowers on the bodice in cream. With a nod, he strode forward, placing a hand on her shoulder to turn her away from him. Ribbon in hand, he focused again on the numbers as his fingers deftly knotted the silk. When he finished, he ignored the thought that three was the number of freckles that dotted her shoulders and neck.

    “Are you ready to break your fast, Sansa?” She spun to face him, her hands clutching her swishing skirts. Her smile was wide and warm.

    “Yes, Petyr.”

    “I’ll let you know now. If I don’t see you eat anything of value today, I shall force feed you an entire _tray_ of lemon cakes.” His voice was dark and humorous. Spots of color flooded Sansa’s cheeks as she nodded her assent. Her pleased expression soured.

    “I’m sorry about last night, Petyr. It won’t happen again.” She said, soberly.

_I hope not, Sansa.’_ “Don’t worry yourself over it, love. We all have our weaker moments.”

    She took his offered arm, and they walked arm in arm to Lysa’s solar.

O-O-O-O-O

    Wil opened the door for them with a bow, Sansa kissed his weathered cheek in thanks. _‘Alayne.’_ Lysa, who had changed into a high-necked gown of silver, was sitting at the table with Robert. Lysa was smoothing Robert’s hair, attempting to soothe the boy staring fitfully at his breakfast. When he caught sight of Sansa, he brightened.

    “Alayne! Sit by me!” Robert patted the chair next to him earnestly. Lysa wasn’t pleased.

    She was about to protest when Sansa interrupted her. “That would be lovely, Robert. You can show me what your favorite foods are.”

    Sansa took the chair to Robert’s left, and Littlefinger took the chair to Lysa’s right. In the center of the table was a plate of sweetbread, a bowl of boiled eggs, and a platter of large sausages. Sansa poured herself a cup of goat’s milk before taking one of everything.

    “Don’t eat the eggs!” Robert placed a hand on Sansa’s arm in warning. He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “They never cook them long enough, and the inside bleeds out and ruins your sweetbread.”

    Sansa gave him a darling smile, and retracted her hand. “Okay! Thank you for telling me.”

    He wrinkled his nose at her leaning in further. “Do you _like_ goat’s milk?”

    “I’ve never tried it,” Sansa replied.

    “Neither have I, but it smells funny. It comes from _goats_.” He eyed his own untouched cup with disgust.

    “Well, if you’ve never tried it, you might be missing out.” He looked at her disbelievingly. “How about we try it together?”

    Robert considered for a short time. “At the same time?”

    “At the same time.”

    Robert nodded slowly, raising his cup to his lips, looking as if he were walking to the headsman. Sansa took hers and they both sipped gingerly when she nodded her head.

    “It’s very sweet, isn’t it? I’ve never been so pleasantly surprised!” exclaimed Sansa, turning to Robert to assess his feelings on the matter. She chuckled when she saw that he was slurping greedily from the cup. He placed the cup on the table, half consumed, breathing heavily.

    “That was _good_. Mother, can we _always_ have goat’s milk at meals?” Robert asked.

    Lysa couldn’t hide her surprise. _‘Maybe it’ll get the whelp off of the tit,’_ Littlefinger thought, his lips curling into a grin. He leaned over to Lysa, placing a kiss close to her ear. “Isn’t she darling with children? It is her true talent in this world,” he whispered.

    “Of course we can, darling. My Sweetrobin is so brave for trying new things. Mummy is so proud!” She gave no recognition to Sansa’s hand in it, cooing over Robert as though the idea were entirely his own.

    Sansa didn’t seem to mind. Over the course of the meal, she convinced Robert to consume most of the food on his plate. The unruly child grew almost tolerable in her company. _‘This is certainly advantageous.’_

    Their meal was interrupted by a knock on the door. Wil stepped into the room, his hands folded in front of him. “Nestor Royce begs an audience with you Lady, and you, my Lord. The Maester says he arrived an hour ago, and waits in the High Hall.”

    Littlefinger cut his eyes to Lysa, who folded her hands in her lap, looking at Wil. “Tell Lord Royce that we will meet him in the Hall within the hour. See to it that he has any refreshment he may require. Please send Maddy to entertain Robert while we meet with Lord Royce.” Wil nodded, and turned to leave, when Littlefinger halted him.

    “Wait.” He turned in his seat to look at Lysa. “Alayne can see to entertaining the boy, until her midday lesson. I’ve no doubt he would enjoy that very much, wouldn’t you Robert?”

    “Oh yes, Uncle Petyr!” He looked at Sansa. “Have you ever seen snow, Alayne? We can build snow soldiers!”

    Sansa smiled at Robert. “I never have; it doesn’t snow in the south. I should like to build snow soldiers with you very much!” She ruffled the lad’s long hair, Petyr could see that her smile did not reach her eyes. She must be thinking of her brothers. How long had it been since she last saw them? Years, surely.

    Will waited at the door for Lysa’s decision. She nodded to the man, a grim set to her mouth. She watched Sansa leave the room, being led by the hand by Robert. Her eyes narrowed at their departure.

    “Lysa,” Littlefinger began, “I know that Alayne’s birth and patronage is disturbing to you, but the girl has a good heart. She’ll not harm Robert; their friendship may prove beneficial to the boy.”

    Lysa couldn’t hide her ire with her wide, fake smile. “Of course, husband. I am sure her years of employ at your establishment didn’t make her into a harlot. Although fathers don’t know everything.” She was alluding to the times that Petyr had shared her bed as a young boy. Hoster Tully wasn’t any the wiser until Petyr had been sent back to the Fingers, and Lysa had fallen pregnant. He forced her to abort the child, because Petyr was of low birth.

    Littlefinger dropped the matter, standing to offer Lysa his arm. She took it without further conversation, and they made their way from the solar toward the Hall.

O-O-O-O-O

    The High Hall was a long room chiseled from blue-veined, white marble. Long tables spanned almost the entire length, in dark wood, polished to shine. Blue banners bearing the hawk sigil of the house Arryn hung from the walls in between tall windows. On a raised dais at the end of the hall stood the throne of the Arryns, carved from weirwood, lesser chairs sat at either side. Behind the throne was a massive weirwood door, bisected to open inward, heavy bronze bars keeping it shut. The Moon Door was an impressive sight. Littlefinger studied it all with an impassive expression.

    Lysa moved toward the throne at the end of the hall with regal bearing. Littlefinger walked four paces behind her, sparing a glance at the man sat at one of the tables nursing a cup of wine. This was not his audience hall, it wouldn’t be prudent for him to welcome Lysa’s guest. Lysa settled herself on the throne. Littlefinger sat in the chair to her left, knowing full well what Nestor would see should he sit at her right. Only when Littlefinger was sitting did Lysa acknowledge the Lord.

    “Lord Royce, come forward.” Nestor stood from the table, and made his way to the throne slowly. He had the gait of a man weary from his travels, and cold besides. When he was before them, he bent to a knee before Lysa, inclining his head to her. He then stood tall and erect, his chest puffed out proudly.

    “Lady Lysa, it warms my heart to see you again.” His voice was quiet, but the hall carried it easily.

    “I thank you, ser. What brings you away from your post at the Gates?” Lysa asked, crossing one leg over the other beneath her skirts.

    “I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage to Lord Baelish.” Royce glanced his way, his whiskers shifting in not-so-subtle annoyance. _‘Ah, yes. You wanted to marry Lysa for yourself. No doubt to give your son a throne.’_

    Lysa didn’t notice the lord’s aggravation. She smiled girlishly at Royce. “Yes, thank you. We are quite pleased to be wed.”

    “I don’t doubt it. I bet your marriage bed still carries your warmth.” The statement was blunt, and close to impertinence, but their close ties made an allowance in this instance. Lysa shared a smug smile with Littlefinger, before looking back to Nestor.

    “Is this the only reason for your visit? The mountainside is growing colder by the day, Ser.” Littlefinger asked.

    Lord Royce glowered at him before addressing Lysa. “My Lady. I would like to beg you, once again, to consider moving into the Gates at the earliest possibility. Your lord husband is correct; the path only grows colder by the day. Waiting longer might strand you and your servants in these halls for the winter. Our granaries and the larder are stocked for your residence there. Robert would be safer at the Gates.”

    Lysa grew angrier with every word from Royce’s mouth. She drew herself up haughtily, intending to verbally eviscerate the man, when Littlefinger interrupted her.

    “My Lady wife.” She rounded on him, her expression softening only slightly. He did not falter. “I understand your reasoning for staying in the Vale. However, moving now, when we’ve months before the paths become impassable is the thing to do. I understand your hesitance. We should at least consider Lord Royce’s question, and send a raven when we’ve reached our decision. I know you will make the wisest choice for your Sweetrobin.” He had risen to kneel before her, one hand drew circles on her thigh, and the other rested over her right hand, holding it gently.

    She blushed under his gaze. “As you say, my husband.” She looked back at Lord Royce as Littlefinger sat himself again to her left side. “Lord Royce, we will send a raven with our answer at our earliest convenience.”

    The man bowed deeply to her, relief plain on his face. “As you say, my Lady.”

    He turned to leave, but Lysa halted him. “Before you leave, Lord Royce, I would have you bear witness.”

    “Witness, my Lady?”

    “Indeed.” She lifted herself from the throne, looking to her left, at Littlefinger. “I hereby name Petyr Baelish Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident, as Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, from this day forward.” She gestured for him to rise, taking his hand in hers. She indicated that he should seat himself at her right, and watched him take his place. Lord Royce glared only a moment too long before falling to a knee before Littlefinger. Triumph swelled in his breast. _‘Yes, kneel to me. A man could get used to this.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! More and more set up, I know. 
> 
> Thoughts?  
> Comments?  
> Concerns?
> 
> <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa begins her lessons with Petyr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: nothing that I haven't already tagged this fic for

   Petyr left Lysa and Lord Royce outside her solar after their business in the High Hall. He made his way through the castle, getting directions from passing servants to the kitchens. When he arrived in the kitchens, scullions stopped their work and bowed before him. Littlefinger only had eyes for a portly man, sweat beading on his brow as he inclined his head toward him before barking orders at everyone to return to work.

   “What can I do for you, Lord Protector?” His eyes never rested, he checked the work of those around him without thought.

   “I need a basket of fruit and bread, and a small cask of wine.” The cook nodded, catching a scullion by the scruff of his neck. He gave the boy the list, sending him on his way, and turned back to Littlefinger.

   “If it isn’t too much to ask, m’lord, my staff can’t work with you in here. If you’d wait in the hall, I will have the lad bring you the things you need.”

   Littlefinger nodded, but the man had already turned from him, harassing his workers to see to their tasks. He had only stood in the hall a moment before the same scullion was pressing a basket laden with foodstuffs into his hands.

   He retraced his steps to the high hall, where he bumped into the Maester, leading a shivering Robert by the arm.

   “Maester Colemon, how are you? What has befallen our young Robert?” The boy looked very ill. Snot dripped from both nostrils, his skin was deathly pale, and he trembled violently.

   “The boy has overexerted himself this morning. He’ll need a leeching to remedy this,” replied the Maester. The boy trembled more violently when he heard ‘leeching’. The Maester, ignoring his protests, began dragging the boy away.

   Littlefinger called after them. “Wait.” The pair turned back to him. “Where were you and Alayne playing, Robert?”

   The boy’s teeth may as well have been glued shut; he only gazed at Littlefinger with wide sunken eyes. The Maester answered for him. “I found them playing in the garden. Quite sweetly. Your daughter has charmed the young Lord.”

   “She does have a way with children,” agreed Littlefinger.

O-O-O-O-O

   He found her sitting in the snow, wrapped in a heavy cloak. She watched him approach from the depths of her hood, her face unreadable.

   “Alayne. How are you, dove?” She looked up at him through lashes dusted with snow. White flakes floated down, alighting on her cheeks and nose before melting on her skin.

   “It has been an age since I’ve seen snow, Petyr. It feels like the first time.” Her eyes were watery then, but her face was bright and unmistakably happy. “We made snow soldiers.” He looked around at the squat mounds topped with snowballs, and smiled.

   “And lovely snow soldiers they are.” He offered his hands to help her up. “Come now, Alayne. It is time for your lessons. I daresay I’m bringing you inside the moment before you catch your death.” She stood, with his help, dusting off the newest layer of flakes. They made their way inside, basket swinging from Petyr’s arm.

O-O-O-O-O

   A fire roared in the hearth of Petyr’s chambers when they arrived. Petyr bolted the door behind them, and helped Sansa shrug off her damp cloak. He noticed that her hair, too, was damp, and led her to sit by the fire; she curled up on the rug. He carried a hair brush and a towel to where Sansa sat, sitting on his knees behind her.

   “May I brush your hair, Sansa?” he asked.

   “Of course Petyr, that would be lovely,” she replied, untying the simple braid.

   He toweled her hair dry before pulling the brush through her tresses. He was as gentle as he was methodical. When he’d finished, he left her hair loose about her shoulders, and moved to sit across from her, in front of the fire. He pulled the bread out of the basket, laying it on a large linen cloth.

   Sansa thanked him for the heel of bread he placed into her hands, and the cup of wine that followed. He chewed thoughtfully on his own bread, and sipped his own wine. Momentarily sated, he began Sansa’s lesson.

   “What do you know of facts and figures, Sansa?”

   She swallowed her mouthful before answering. “I know the basics, Petyr. I know how to do sums, and take away. I know how to multiply, and divide.”

   He nodded before continuing. “Are you aware, that with that little knowledge, you can do nearly anything you wish with numbers? For instance, percentages. Do you know what percentages are?”

   She shook her head slowly. “I’ve heard the term, but do not know what it means. I know that Maesters use them for making medicines and other things.”

   He smiled. “They do. That’s exactly right. Well, percentages are extremely important to a great many people. The basic percentages being: twenty-five percent, fifty percent, seventy-five percent, and one hundred percent. Do these numbers ring any bells?”

   She shook her head, her mouth working on another bite of bread.

   “What if I said this, instead,” he leaned forward slightly, grinning. “One quarter, one half, three quarters, and a whole.”

   Her eyes brightened and she nodded. “I know what those mean.”

   “Well,” he continued, “one quarter is twenty-five percent. One half is fifty percent. Three quarters is seventy-five percent. One whole is one hundred percent.”

   “That doesn’t seem so difficult.”

   They spoke at some length about percentages and how to figure them out. With a little coaxing, Sansa managed to grasp the concept well enough that Petyr would have let her run one of his establishments with little concern.

   They took a break after an hour or so, Petyr offered Sansa a pomegranate from the basket.

   “What is this?” she asked, skeptically.

   “It’s a pomegranate, Sweetling. They’re a bit tart, but delicious.” She accepted it hesitantly.

   “Do I bite into it, like an apple?” She turned the fruit over in her hands.

   Petyr chuckled. “Northern girls,” he rolled his eyes, taking the fruit from her hands. “Grab some cushions for us, this floor is unkind, and I’ll show you.” She got up to fetch the cushions, while Petyr fished a knife from the basket. Sansa threw a large cushion at his back with a laugh before sitting on her own beside him.

   He demonstrated how to identify the ridges the cut along, how to use the knife to score four lines in the outer skin, before pulling the fruit apart to reveal the fleshy seeds inside. He used the linen cloth over an empty wine cup to hold the seeds he removed from the fruit.

   “That is the queerest fruit I have ever seen, Petyr. I don’t know if I want to try it.”

   He gazed at her a long moment before placing the cup between his knees. He splayed his left hand on the carpet behind her, taking a single pomegranate seed from the cup in his right. “Perhaps your nose will find it in good taste.” He gave her a ruthless grin.

   “No!” She pleaded, leaning her shoulder into his, giggling.

   “Close your eyes, and open your mouth.”

   She closed her eyes, and opened her mouth, her smile still brightening her face.

   Petyr lifted the seed to her mouth, his fingers grazed her bottom lip as he pulled his hand back. His heart thundered in his chest, Sansa’s eyes rolled under their lids and she savored the morsel. He couldn’t compose himself before Sansa opened her eyes. Whatever words she had been about to say died when she saw him. He imagined she could see his conflict, his desire. He steeled himself for her to leave the room in disgust, remembering the long silence on the High Road. Instead, she reached to grab two pomegranate seeds from the cup. She placed one in her mouth, and raised the other to his own.

   He sensed everything. He saw the way her hand trembled. He heard her breath quicken, and saw her pulse race. He saw the lightening roots of her painted hair. When he wrapped his lips around the seed in her fingers, he saw the way her pupils seemed to consume her irises. _‘I can’t.’_

   He traced a finger over her clavicle, up her slender neck, and cupped a hand under her chin before pressing his lips onto hers. He stroked the corner of her mouth with a thumb, brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek and along her jaw, and moved his lips against hers. When she began moving her lips with his, he groaned. When she opened her mouth to his, allowing him to explore her mouth with his tongue, he thought his heart might explode. When she met his tongue with her own, hesitant and unpracticed, his mind shattered.

   She tasted of pomegranate. She tasted. _‘Sansa.’_

   Sansa grew bolder as the moments dragged on. Without breaking contact, and with Petyr’s assistance, she moved to straddle him. Her warmth was intoxicating. He ran his hands over her hair, her back, barely touching. Her hands were on his shoulders, holding on for life. Sansa whimpered into his mouth, pressing her body flush to his. He had to reign in his mounting arousal, before he brought this moment to catastrophe.

   Petyr placed his hands on her hips, and gently removed her from his lap. He cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her right cheek, her left cheek, her right and left eyes, her forehead, her nose, and finally her lips. He rested his forehead on hers, savoring their shared breathlessness.

   “Sansa. Sweetling. Are you alright?” Petyr scanned her face. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were gaining clarity. Her brows knit together, and a look somewhere between shame and confusion settled on her features.

   “Yes, Petyr. I’m alright.” She licked her lips uncertainly. “I’m sorry, Petyr. I don’t know…”

 _‘Oh no you don’t. Gods damn me.’_ “Sansa, please don’t apologize. I promise, this will not happen again.” Her face was unreadable, a careful mask. “I never meant—”

   There was a knock at the door. Sansa stood quickly, smoothing her hands over her skirts. Petyr rose more slowly, taking her hand in his to place a kiss on the inside of her wrist. An apology. She gave him a small confident smile, bending to take the cup of pomegranate seeds in a hand. She sat in one of the chairs by the fire, her feet curled underneath her. Petyr’s head buzzed with a mix of emotions; he was euphoric, terrified, angry, and hungry for more.

   Littlefinger unlatched and opened the door.

   Wil ducked his head, muttering an apology for interrupting Lady Alayne’s lesson. Littlefinger fixed him with an expectant stare.

   “Lord Baelish, it’s the young Lord Arryn. He has fallen ill. I’m afraid his mother is beside herself.” Littlefinger could feel Sansa’s eyes on his back, her interest piqued.

   “What did the Maester say, precisely?”

   Wil studied the floor, avoiding Littlefinger’s hard stare. “He said the leeching has left the boy weaker than ever before. He fell unconscious. Maester Colemon is not sure if he will wake.” His countenance seemed concerned, but Littlefinger could see something else there. He would need to question him further.

   “I see. Tell the Maester I asked for him to give Lysa something to calm her. I will be along to comfort her, shortly.”

   Wil turned to leave, Petyr shut the door. Wood under his fingertips. Silence pressed in around him. He turned to Sansa with reluctance, he had no idea what to expect from her. She had a hand over her mouth, and tears pooled in her eyes. She was staring at the door, unmoving.

   “Sansa.” Petyr stepped toward her carefully. She dragged her eyes to him, a strangled whine rising in her throat.

   “I’ve killed him, haven’t I?” she asked, horrorstruck.

   Petyr closed the space between them, settling to his knees in front of her chair. He didn’t trust himself to touch her; instead he placed his hands on the arm rests. He waited for her breathing to slow before speaking. “What do you mean, Sweetling?”

   “Robert. I’ve killed him, haven’t I?” She dried her eyes before continuing. “We played out in the snow, he asked to go inside, but I insisted on staying out. We argued over it, and soon after he was trembling. Maester Colemon had to escort him away. He’s going to die, and it will be my fault.”

   “No, Sweetling. Whatever happens to Robert Arryn, it is not your fault. He is a sickly little boy.”

   “Forgive me, Petyr.” She looked as though she wanted to say more, but remained silent, studying his face.

   “There’s nothing to forgive. Go to your chambers and rest until dinner time. We can dine in my solar before your evening lesson.” He kept his features smooth, but his mind wandered to the lesson they’d just concluded. He longed to taste her again. _‘I swore it wouldn’t happen again.’_

   “What will happen if Robert dies?” Her eyes were clouded with concern, would that he could read her mind, know her thoughts.

   “We can speak more of this after you’ve had some rest, Sweetling. Come, I will escort you to your chambers, I must attend my wife.” He stood, stealing the last few pomegranate pips before helping her to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> Feel free to ask me anything!
> 
> <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger confronts the person(s) responsible for Robert's condition. Sansa continues her studies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Intimidation  
>  Angst (because...)
> 
> *kiss*

   Lysa was despondent. Littlefinger found his way to Robert’s chambers easily, her wails filled the entire hall. He opened the door gently, wearing a look of concern.

   Robert was wrapped in blankets on his bed. The bed was small, made for a child, but it dwarfed his withered form. Dark purple circles were about his eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor to it. His breathing was shallow, and Littlefinger could see his rapid heartbeat in the veins of his throat. He looked as though he was going to die, but Littlefinger dared not hope. _‘My plans may still yet come to fruition. I only need Sansa to play along.’_

   “Lysa.” He opened his arms to her, and when she turned to him, he kept them open, despite wanting to recoil in disgust. Her hair, perfectly coiffed only this morning, looked as though she’d been trying to tear it out. She was trembling, head to toe, veins in her arms and one on her forehead bulged in her strain. Her eyes were crazed, and a guttural whine rose from her lungs in sharp bursts. He could see a wetness on her chest, milk soaking through her dress. _‘Gods, woman.’_

   She rose from her chair beside Robert’s bed, and collapsed in his arms. “Petyr! Oh, Petyr!”

   He kissed the top of her head, burying her face in his chest as he held her. He didn’t trust himself to maintain his mask if he looked upon her. “What’s happened, Lysa?”

   “Robert won’t wake up!” The words were muffled in his chest, he rubbed circles on her back soothingly.

   “He will wake, love. This is not the end of Robert Arryn,” he assured her. “Lysa, has the Maester given you anything to help calm you?”

   “How can I be calm, Petyr?” She raised her head, fixing him with a puffy eyed stare. “My heart lies in this bed, dying. I can’t leave him, not when he might not wake, Petyr. I don’t know what I should do without him.”

   Littlefinger gazed down at her. “I cannot bear to see you in pain, love. Please, allow the Maester to give you something to calm you, I should like you to feel better. Robert only needs rest, you’ll see.” She still looked at him uncertainly.

   The door opened, admitting Maester Colemon. Littlefinger seized the moment. “Ah, Maester. We were just about to seek you out.”

   The man bowed to the pair of them. He carried a tray laden with a steaming bowl of broth for Robert. “How may I be of service to you, Lord Baelish?”

   Littlefinger appraised the man critically. “I would ask you to make something to soothe my Lady wife. Robert’s ailment has left her weary, she needs rest, wouldn’t you agree?” Colemon nodded to him, paying Lysa an apologetic stare.

   “I couldn’t agree more, my Lady,” he replied. He placed the tray on a table, and produced a small vial from the left sleeve of his robe, handing it to Littlefinger. “A spoonful of this will help bring about a peaceful rest. I’ll look after Lord Robert while you sleep.”

   Littlefinger covered Lysa’s protest with a finger to her lips. “Allow me to escort you to bed, Lysa. You can look in on Robert after you’ve had rest.” She didn’t argue when he took her arm in his to lead her from the room.

O-O-O-O-O

   Littlefinger stoked the fire in her chambers, laying another log in the embers. Lysa stood mute in the center of the room, staring at nothing. He scooped her up, carrying her to the bed. He set her down and kissed her forehead, undoing the ties in her dress. He undressed her in moments, motioning for her to lay down in her shift. He uncorked the vial when she was settled. She didn’t fight him when he offered her a spoonful of the sleeping draught.

   “Will you stay with me until I sleep, Petyr? I need you close.” He hid a grimace behind a smile, climbing onto the bed beside her, still dressed. He draped an arm over her midriff and traced nonsense patterns on her cheekbones with his fingers. Staring into the fire, he thought.

_'If Robert dies, Harrold Hardyng becomes Lord of the Eyrie. If Sansa agrees to marry Hardyng, she will become infinitely more powerful, and can reclaim the north. The boy’s death would truly be the best thing that could happen. It would undo Lysa in ways nothing else could. She might have another child, with me, but I doubt Robert will live long enough for that. Sansa could marry Robert, but Lysa would never agree to it, and he certainly won’t live long enough to put a child in her.’_ His mouth turned sourly at the thought of Harrold or Robert, or any man, touching Sansa in that way.

   The afternoon’s lesson played through his head. The feeling of Sansa’s mouth moving with his made warmth creep up around his neck, settling behind his eyes. He was tracing patterns on Lysa’s cheekbones, but he was remembering the silk of Sansa’s skin. He could picture the look of her swollen lips perfectly, and he was biting his own lip. _‘Concentrate.’_ He felt himself growing hard, his hands acted of their own accord, brushing up and down Lysa’s body. She leaned into his touch, murmuring his name sleepily.

   He considered fucking Lysa then and there, to get the need out of his system. Deciding against it, he controlled his hands, concentrating on lulling Lysa to sleep so that he could attend a few matters before the evening lesson. It didn’t take long, whatever the Maester concocted for her worked quickly.

O-O-O-O-O

   He cornered Wil first, in a darkened corridor. No sounds could be heard anywhere close, they were alone. The serving man had a nervous countenance. This morning had unbalanced him, for reasons Littlefinger intended to get to the bottom of.

   Petyr carried a large tome in his hands, for Sansa’s next lesson. His face was impassive and uncaring. He fixed Wil with a knowing stare. “Wil…something happened today…and I would like to get to the bottom of it _very much._ ”

   The man swallowed audibly. “I don’t know what you mean, Lord Protector.”

   “ _Tsk…_ That’s not true, is it Wil? You’ll find you cannot lie to me.” He crowded closer to the man, his posture unassuming but deadly. “Did you harm the boy, Wil?”

   His shocked expression, quickly masked, gave Littlefinger the truth of it. “I did not!” he stammered hotly.

   Littlefinger stepped closer to him, placing a beringed hand on his shoulder. “I believe you, Wil…I also believe you _know_ why Lord Arryn is lying abed, close to death.” _‘Knowledge is power’_

   His eyes fell to the floor for a heartbeat before he replied. “The boy is sickly. Prone to fits, and frequently requires Colemon’s attention.”

_You forgot his station, and have hanged yourself.’_

   Littlefinger frowned thoughtfully. “After my business with Lord Royce, I went to the kitchens to gather foodstuffs for a picnic for Alayne and myself. I do not know the ways of this castle as I do the Red Keep, I had to ask directions…though I don’t recall seeing you anywhere at all…Where were you this morning, after you admitted us to Lysa’s solar?” Wil’s face paled. _‘Aha.’_

   Wil started to answer, but Littlefinger interrupted him, crowding closer, their noses nearly touching.

   “Tell me Wil, in this big empty castle, who do you lust for? Do you dream of fucking my wife? Or perhaps my daughter? They’re both beautiful women in their own way. Who do you dream of? Who do you picture? Tell me, Wil...I won’t breathe a word to a soul.” He arched an eyebrow at the man, reading every micro expression.

   Littlefinger didn’t let up. “Maybe you don’t enjoy doing the fucking. You enjoy being fucked, is that it? You’ve served in this castle for a long time. Could it be that you don’t fancy women at all? Are you so depraved?” Truthfully, Littlefinger didn’t care at all for his preferences. The dig at the man’s character did exactly what it was meant to, however. Wil’s eyes flashed angrily, but there was shame there as well.

   “I will not be talked to this way by anyone, not even you, Lord Protector.” He made as if to storm off, but Littlefinger had a dagger at his throat.

   “Oh, no you don’t. So…you’re fucking the _Maester_ …interesting.” Littlefinger shrugged. “To each his own. However, if you want that to stay between us, you’re going to tell me _exactly_ what happened.” Wil withered slightly, mindful of the dagger.

   “Lord Baelish…It was an accident…I was with the Maester when the boy lost consciousness…we were…he was being leeched…we took too long to get back to him…he lost too much blood.” The man was sweating profusely. “It wasn’t long, the boy is already so weak.”

   Littlefinger looked at him coldly. “If that child dies, my wife will want someone to sprout wings for her, you know this. If anything happens to him, you know exactly who she’ll be coming for. Think on that.” He turned to leave before he remembered.

   “Wil, see that dinner for two is brought to my solar. I would dine with my daughter before her evening lesson.” The man nodded weakly as he left him.

O-O-O-O-O

   He found the Maester tending Robert in the boy’s chambers. The bowl that had held broth was empty. He checked his pulse, and opened his eyelids, peering into them curiously. Littlefinger watched Colemon from the doorway until he realized he wasn’t alone. He started violently.

   “Lord Baelish! You startled me! How can I help you?” He chuckled nervously when Littlefinger didn’t respond.

   Littlefinger stepped further into the room, allowing the door to swing shut. He bolted the latch, and turned back to the man, silent as the grave. The man was nervous. He had every reason to be. After several moments, he began fussing over Robert again, probably hoping that Littlefinger would leave. _‘This is laughably easy.’_

   “I’ve just spoken with Wil,” Littlefinger intoned, allowing the implication to hang in the air.

   The Maester glanced at him for a heartbeat before turning back to Robert.

   Littlefinger admired the man’s lack of response. It wouldn’t do him any good, but it was admirable. He was found out, thoroughly exposed. “I don’t need to explain to you what will happen to you if the boy dies.” The man grimaced, shaking his head, still bowed over the boy.

   “Good,” said Littlefinger, leaving as silently as he entered.

O-O-O-O-O

   The bath was steaming when he sank into the water. He scrubbed his body with a cake of soap, feeling as though he hadn’t bathed in a week, when it had only been a little over a day. _‘Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn.’_ His titles were becoming rather long, despite being so low-born. He would need to find a way to pacify Lord Royce, he couldn’t supplant Lysa and keep the Vale if he had no friends. The Maester and the servant though, it was an amusing thought. He remembered rankling Renly Baratheon at the Hand’s Tourney so long ago.

   He chuckled heartily, the sound filled the small washroom. _‘When you know what a man wants, you know who he is, and how to move him.’_

   Petyr entered his bed chamber and found Sansa already there, waiting for him. She was curled up in an armchair by the fire, the large tome he’d procured for her open in her lap. It was a book on Westerosi history. A rather dry and cumbersome text, but when you looked at it through the right filter, you began to see far more about the way the world works.

   “Do you feel well rested, my Lady?” She looked up from the book slowly, unsurprised at his entrance. If his manner of dress affected her in any way, she didn’t show it. He was stripped to the waist, having forgotten a clean shirt in his haste to bathe. He laced his breeches unhurriedly.

   “I do, Petyr. It was a good suggestion on your part. Did you learn anything more of Robert?” Her eyes betrayed little of the guilt she had expressed earlier.

   “I did.” He replied, seating himself in the second armchair. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I am confident that Robert will be alright. I also discovered that you have no fault in his current condition. It is true that the amount of time he spent out of doors today caused his attack, but his state of unconsciousness falls on the shoulders of others.”

   She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Who, Petyr?”

   He considered telling her all of it, but decided to test her. “I’ll tell you what, Sweetling. I discovered a secret, and I would like to know if you might be able to find it out on your own.”

   “How would that benefit me, precisely? Knowing people’s secrets is what gets you killed.”

   “An astute observation. It is dangerous to parade the knowledge of someone’s secrets to them. You need to be able to instill enough fear in a person, so they won’t think to move against you for fear of being found out or killed. How might one, such as yourself, go about that?” He sat back, folding his hands over the arms of the chair.

   She thought for a long while. “Well, I’m not physically intimidating…I believe I would placate them in some fashion. Perhaps make them think that only by me being alive, and their compliance, could they hope to attain something more for themselves…be it gold, or influence, or what have you.”

   He arched an eyebrow at her. “Very good…what else?”

   She thought harder, her brows furrowing. “I’m…not…sure, Petyr. What else?”

   He leaned toward her. “You need an exit strategy. If, for instance, I knew a secret of yours…and it was a secret you desperately wanted kept…I would let you know what I knew…and then, you’d be mine. Should you reveal your secret to someone else, though? I would need to know how to act in such a situation. Would I need to run? Claim that I had no idea? I would most likely need to guard my back, because your secret wouldn’t be protecting it anymore. Do you see?”

   “That…seems like a very intense and frightening way to live, Petyr.”

   He waved a dismissive hand at her. “I’d risk anything and everything to get what I want, Sweetling.”

   She clutched the tome to her breast. “And what do you want?”

   “Everything.” The answer left his lips, but tasted strangely false. _‘I’m not sure I know anymore, Sansa.’_

   She frowned at him thoughtfully. “Hang on…You killed Ser Dontos after he aided me to your ship…because he knew my name. You had the captain killed for the same reason…You don’t trust anyone with your secrets. Those that know anything you wouldn’t have reach others’ ears, you kill.”

   He didn’t point out that the secrets she mentioned were her own. “Yes, indeed…When you learn someone’s secrets, Sweetling, your status in the game determines the way you can play them. Ser Dontos was killed, because he was a drunk, and I knew his loyalty could be bought. Ser Dontos was killed because he was a piece and not a player.”

   She nodded slowly, but he could see she still did not understand.

   “For players, what you don’t know is usually what gets you killed. For pieces, what you _know_ is what gets you killed.” _‘Not unlike your father.’_

   A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Petyr rose to answer it, nodding knowingly to Wil as he took the tray of food from him. Wil’s eyes were scanning the scar on Petyr’s chest when he shut the door in his face.

   He turned to face Sansa, still pondering his words, her arms encircling the book. “Would you care to dine with me, Sweetling?” He asked quietly.

O-O-O-O-O

   He pulled on a shirt before he beckoned her into his solar, and sat at the small table with the tray between them. Dinner was a stew made from the previous evening’s feast. Petyr admired the kitchen’s resourcefulness. They ate in comfortable silence, alternating bites of stew with bread.

   He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Just that morning, he’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back. He refused to entertain any sort of continuance along that vein, but as he looked at her, he saw her differently. Still a girl, but truly a woman grown. Perched regally at the edge of her chair, hiding away under a pseudonym she barely fit. She had her mother’s wits, and her father’s bravery, but the two coalesced into something that was purely Sansa. She had a darkness about her, very unlike the girl he’d met in King’s Landing so long ago. The question was whether that darkness had been put there, through the many grievances committed against her and her family; or if it had blossomed as she had blossomed. _‘Would you always have been this way?’_

   Sansa’s face flashed with a deep concern, before she mastered her expression. “Petyr?”

   “Yes, Sansa?”

   “You know many of my secrets. I know many of yours.” She continued in a barely audible whisper. “Are you going to kill me?”

   The blood drained from Petyr’s face. “Never…Never, Sansa. I wouldn’t…ever.”

   “Why?” She was still afraid. If she wanted logic, he couldn’t offer her any comfort. If she wanted an emotional response, he was equally destitute. _‘What do you want me to say?’_

   “I don’t have a concrete reason, Sansa. I just know that when I look upon your face, so very like your mother’s, but entirely your own person, I cannot fathom watching you die. Or knowing that I lived in a world where I had orchestrated your death.”

   “What does that _mean_ , Petyr?” Her eyes were less fearful, but anger had found its way in. Her voice was a soft demand.

   Words choked in his mouth. “I…don’t know, Sansa.” He gestured hopelessly. “I truly do not know.”

   His mind worked over the way her mouth felt on his. The taste of pomegranate in their mouths. The way she said his name, sometimes sounding like prayer. The way he felt himself saying hers. The look in her eyes when Lysa staked her claim on him. Her compassion with Robert despite the boy’s worthlessness. The ever present _want_ he felt when he looked at her. Was it lust? It was a thing easily figured out, but he’d sworn not to touch her. But she had taken the pomegranate seed and placed it in his mouth. Her pupils had dilated. What did it mean. What did he feel. Why?

   Petyr scrubbed his face agitatedly. Sansa waited with stubborn patience. He stood suddenly, taking her hand in his without waiting for her to accept. He led her into his chambers, sat her on an armchair, and placed the history tome on her lap. He gestured for her to begin reading, but she just stared up at him through large eyes.

   “Petyr…how can I _know_ you don’t intend to kill me?” she didn’t touch the book.

   “Sansa…I cannot answer that question…Let us get on with your lesson, read to me.” _‘Please leave this.’_

   “I won’t. Not until you invite me in. If you trust me with your secrets, trust me with this.” She was calm, and he was becoming less and less so.

   “Sansa…I…do…not…know…” He had one hand under an elbow, and the other pressed over his mouth.

   “I. Believe. You. Do.” She shot back.

_'Give her logic, or tell her the truth? Which is it? Logic or truth? **LOGIC OR TRUTH!** ’_ He shouted in his mind, but focused all of his energy on keeping his body casual. He almost couldn’t.

   “I believe I can still convince you to use your birthright. I believe I can convince you to reclaim the north. I believe I can make you Sansa Stark again.” The words tasted poisonous, and Sansa retreated behind a perfect mask, he didn’t know what she thought.

   “I see.” She opened the tome, and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all oh so very dearly!
> 
> **kiss kiss**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr struggles with his conscience. Petyr struggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: See tags above. <3

   Littlefinger couldn’t sleep that night. Lysa wanted him to sleep in her chambers, but after thirty minutes of trying he was still too tense. Lysa slept next to him, occasionally muttering under her breath between snores. He pressed a pillow over his ears to drown out the noise, but it wasn’t any use.

   He climbed out of the bed, being careful to not jostle Lysa. He slipped silently into his clothes, not bothering to do the clasps of his coat. He left the room, closing the door as quietly as he could. The hallway was several degrees cooler than Lysa’s bedchambers, but his feet couldn’t decide where to carry him. Part of him wanted to call upon Sansa, and explain to her that her question had been impossible to answer. The other part of him wanted to seek the shelter of his own chambers, to bask in the warmth of his hearth, and ignore the turmoil in his head.

   The thing that bothered him the most wasn’t what he said, but Sansa’s reaction to it. Something in the openness of the question, and her determination to have it answered, made Petyr feel as though she was seeking a specific response. He hadn’t spoken openly with anyone in a long time, being scorned once was enough. What if her naivety led her to this line of questioning? She couldn’t understand. He was certain of that. _‘She kissed me back.’_               

   Littlefinger took a deep breath, willing his mind into stillness. It wouldn’t do to dwell on what transpired. He could only find a way to incorporate it into his budding plans. He made his way to his chambers, suddenly intent on writing letters before trying to sleep.

O-O-O-O-O

   When he entered his apartments, Littlefinger breathed a sigh of relief. He removed his coat, and hung it on an armchair, before walking into his solar. He collapsed into the chair by the desk, staring overly long into the swirling patterns of the wood grain. He shook himself, preparing to write. He pulled out several sheets of parchment, two quills, ink, wax, and three nearly identical wax presses.  

   The first set of letters were written in the event of Robert and Lysa Arryn’s death. He wrote a letter to Harrold Hardyng, asking him to journey to the Eyrie so that he could take his place as the Lord of the Eyrie, and Lord Paramount of the Vale of Arryn. He wrote a letter naming Nestor Royce as the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, in Lysa’s own hand. The last letter he addressed to King Tommen. He asked the King to allow Sansa Stark to travel to the Eyrie, to marry Harrold Hardyng. He knew Tywin would understand the strategic advantages of such a marriage.

   The second set of letters were written in the event of Robert Arryn’s recovery, and Lysa Arryn’s death. The first of which was addressed to himself, from Lysa Arryn, awarding him control of the Vale of Arryn until such a time as Robert comes of age. The second was nearly identical to the one he’d already written to Nestor Royce, in regards to his new titles. The third was written to the King, asking to have Sansa Stark sent to the Eyrie to marry Robert. The fourth was written to the King, asking for Alayne Stone to be legitimized so that she may marry Robert. _‘Prepare for every possible outcome.’_

   The last letter was written in triplicate, giving explicit instructions for the treatment of his daughter, his holdings, and his businesses, in the event of his own death. A grim thought, but necessary, so that he could see that Sansa was well looked after in any future.

   When he finished writing, he chose one of the three wax presses to use for each group of letters. The imprints they left in the wax were nearly identical, save for minute details that one needed to know about to find. Littlefinger hid the letters in a book he’d modified for the task. It was an unassuming text, easily overlooked.

   Littlefinger sat back and thought. He knew how to twist every outcome to his advantage, but none of the outcomes seemed like enough. He couldn’t remember ever looking at the future less favorably. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, irritated and over-tired.

   He rose from his desk, and walked to his bedchambers. He undressed completely, and fell into his bed, thankful to the gods that Lysa was too intoxicated to visit him in the night. _‘A small victory.’_

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr woke up late the following morning. He kept his eyes shut, savoring the remnants of a sweet dream. His right hand traced absentmindedly across his chest, and he chuckled at his grumbling stomach. He missed the morning meal, no doubt. Petyr contemplated slipping back into sleep when a voice spoke from beside him.

   “It was Wil.” Sansa stated.

   “Sansa!” He choked. She was lying next to him, atop the covers, her body facing his. She had retrieved his coat from the armchair to combat the morning chill. She giggled at his outburst.

   She gave him a few moments to calm his racing heart before continuing. “It was Wil _and_ the Maester.”

   Littlefinger settled his head further into his pillow, and arched an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

   “Yes.” She stated.

   He leaned up on his elbows, the blankets shifted off his chest. “You have proof.” It wasn’t a question.

   Sansa nodded. “I skipped the morning meal to visit with Robert. When I got to his chambers, Maester Colemon was feeding him broth. He asked if I would like to help and sit with Robert, so that he could attend some other duties around the castle, and I said ‘yes’. Less than an hour later, _Wil_ walked into Robert’s chambers carrying food for me. I noticed he smelled _heavily_ of the Maester. I left when Lysa came to sit with her son.”

   Petyr barked a laugh. “You, my dear, have a keen nose.”

   Sansa blushed slightly at his praise. “Not unlike a wolf.” She quipped.

   “Very good, Sansa. You’ve got it right. Color me impressed.” Silence fell between them, uncomfortably for Petyr. He wanted to speak about their conversation from the previous night, seeing her in his coat was a balm for his ego. He wanted to apologize.

   “So, I’ve passed your test?” She asked, carefully.

   Petyr fell back into the pillow, thankful for the punctured silence. “You have.”

   Sansa’s cheeks colored wondrously. “Is there a reward?”

   Petyr folded his hands one on top of the other on his chest. “Anything I can give, Sweetling.”

   Sansa plucked at a thread in the blanket, not meeting his eyes. She seemed to be gathering the courage to speak, but her breathing was measured and even. Petyr closed his eyes and twiddled his thumbs, waiting.

   “I want you to take my maidenhead.” Sansa stated simply.

   Petyr felt as though he’d been pinned underneath an immense weight. He kept his eyes closed, and concentrated on controlling all outward displays of emotion. _‘What?’_

   “What did you say?” He asked when he felt he could trust his voice. He opened his eyes slowly, taking in Sansa lying next to him.

   Sansa was still toying with the thread, but her eyes bore into his. “I want you to take my maidenhead, Petyr.” It wasn’t a question.

   Petyr was tingling from his head to his toes. “Why?”

   Her brows furrowed at the question; she laid her hand flat on the blanket. “Does my reason matter?”

   “Sansa…why?” He made sure to keep his limbs well away from her. His entire body was on edge, he could feel himself growing hard. He needed to focus.

   She laid flat on her stomach, and buried her face in her hands, so her reply was muffled.

   “I can’t hear you, Sweetling.” He said patiently.

   “I asked you if you wanted logic or truth.” She said, lifting her head from her hands. She looked tired, as though she hadn’t slept. Despite his need to keep his distance, Petyr turned toward her. He wasn’t touching her, but he could feel her body heat.

   “Both.” He answered.

   Her reply sounded well-rehearsed. “I don’t want to be married to someone because I am still a virgin. I don’t want to be someone’s prize, or tie to the North. I don’t _want_ to be bartered with. I’m tired of mights and maybes.” She peered at him through long lashes, her eyes were intense.

   “And the truth?” His voice filled the small space between them. _‘Sansa, you must know that I am unworthy of you.’_

   “I am tired of being afraid, Petyr. I kissed you yesterday, and you said it wouldn’t ever happen again. That hurt more than anything that’s been done to me.” Her cheeks burned, but the words weren’t hesitant. _‘She’s telling the truth…’_

   “Sansa…I ca– ”

   “Please, Petyr.” Sansa took one of his hands in hers and held it to her cheek. “Please.” She said again, pressing a kiss into his palm. She brought his hand to her breast, where he traced a mockingbird she had worked into the bodice. It was the gown he’d gifted her on the ship. His hand trailed down her front on its own, and when he saw the way her cheeks colored, he caved.

   The decision wasn’t really a decision at all. Sansa was in his bed, wearing his coat, asking him to take from her that which Petyr was convinced no man was worthy of taking. She was offering. How could he refuse?

   “Lie on your stomach, love.” Petyr pushed himself to kneeling, skimming a hand over her back before pulling his coat from her shoulders, and slowly unlacing her dress. She wrapped her arms around a pillow, her head turned to the side. He gestured for her to roll over on her back.

   Sansa looked up at him, her hands resting on her stomach. Petyr placed a hand on either side of her head, studying her eyes, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “May I?” He asked, gesturing to her gown. Sansa nodded, though there was fear underneath the steel in her eyes.

   “Are you afraid?” He asked, sitting back on his heels.

   She nodded again. “I _am_ afraid…but I trust you, Petyr.”

   “I will not harm you, Sansa.” He swore. _‘You swore not to touch her, but here you are.’_ He quieted his thoughts, focusing on the woman before him.

   Petyr took Sansa’s hands in his own, setting them to her sides so that he could slide her dress from her body. His eyes drank in every inch of skin the gown exposed to air. When she was undressed completely, she moved her hands to rest again on her abdomen. The gesture seemed to be in an effort to conceal her stomach. Petyr furrowed his eyebrows at her. “What is it, love?”

   “My scars.” She muttered embarrassedly.

   Petyr removed her hands from her stomach. “Every. Inch. Of. You. Is. Perfect.” He said, punctuating each word with a kiss on her fingertips. “Let me show you.”

   Sansa placed her hands at her sides, and Petyr studied the scar she’d been trying to hide. It was evil looking; longer than his hand, and as thick as his thumb at its widest point. How she managed to survive such a wound was beyond him. He bent down and grazed his lips along the scar. He pressed kisses into her ribs and up her breastbone. He nipped lightly on her collar bone, and suckled gently on her neck. Her breathing hitched as he moved, her hands clutched tightly in the bedding.

   Petyr worked his way back down to catch her right nipple in his mouth. Sansa arched her back, and gasped. He smiled into her skin, trailing kisses to her other nipple. Her exhalations became frantic as Petyr savored her flesh. He stretched himself over her and rolled so that she was on top of him. He was surprised to find that he was breathing just as hard as she was.

   He traced the bridge of her nose and her eyebrows with a finger. “Is this okay?” He asked, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. Petyr smiled. “You’re shivering, love. Would you like to get under the blankets?”

   Sansa nodded again, and Petyr shifted their bodies so he could maneuver the blankets on top of them both. The feeling of her naked body flush with his was almost more than his mind could handle. He closed his eyes so that he could regroup, but Sansa covered his mouth with her own, shattering his composure.

   She kissed him slowly, hesitantly invading his mouth with her tongue. He pressed his fingertips into her back, keeping her as close as he was able. He wanted to press her into the ache in his chest. She smelled of honey and cinnamon, and tasted sweeter. As she grew more comfortable kissing him, her hands began exploring his body. Petyr hissed when she grazed his side with her fingernails. He chuckled into her mouth when she did it again.

   Sansa sat up, straddling his midsection. “Petyr, are you ticklish?” Her eyes glinted evilly.

   “No, I’m not.” He lied.

   Her hands hovered over his sides as she arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh really?” She began tickling him in earnest. Petyr pressed a pillow over his face to stifle his laughter. When his cock pressed up against her bare bottom, she yelped. Petyr placed a hand over her mouth and pinned her underneath him, her legs still wrapped around his middle.

   “Shhhhhh, love…We must be quiet.” He didn’t release her mouth until she nodded her agreement. He stroked the side of her face, admiring the blush that lingered under her cheeks. “Might I taste you, Sweetling?”

   Her expression was one of confusion, but she consented with a small nod. Petyr kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth, her neck, her sternum, her scar, her navel, and the inside of each thigh. The closer to her heat that he got, the more powerful was her scent. The soft hairs on her mound were as red as her natural hair. Petyr spread her legs, his mouth hovering close.

   He wasn’t sure what was sweeter: his name falling from her lips, or the way she tasted when he lapped at her sensitive center. Petyr massaged the inside of her thighs while he devoured her. Sansa gripped his hair and bucked her hips, trying to sate her body’s demands.

   Petyr worked his mouth over her until she was dripping. Sansa teetered on the edge, her entire body trembling. He kissed his way back up her body, catching her mouth with his own. Her eyes were feverish and filled with tears.

   Petyr cradled her face in his hands, pressing his lips all over her face to help her back from the edge. “Sansa…are you okay?” he asked, running a thumb over her bottom lip. She nodded shakily, stroking his chest hairs.

   “I’m ready, Petyr…” She said, running her hands through the grey hairs at his temples. The ache in his chest throbbed painfully. He nodded in response.

   Petyr settled himself between Sansa’s knees. He ran his hands over her thighs, and studied her for any signs of reluctance. She smiled distractedly at him when he pulled her toward him, giving himself better access. He stroked himself as he positioned his cock at her entrance. Sansa’s breathing quickened and she looked away.

   “Sansa…look at me.” Petyr said, holding himself back. It took every ounce of will to keep himself from moving forward. Sansa dragged her eyes to him, and nodded, despite the fear lingering in her eyes. Petyr pushed into her slowly. Sansa’s eyes shut against the discomfort, and he could feel her tense around him. _‘Gods.’_

   “Sansa…look at me, love.” He splayed a hand over her stomach, stroking her from her navel to where they were joined. When she opened her eyes, he pushed in a little further. “Your body will adjust, but you need to relax, my love.”

   Sansa nodded weakly, trying to make her body relax. Petyr pushed until he was buried inside her. Sansa was breathing hard; her expression was pinched. “Petyr…”

   “Hey, hey, hey…shhh…Sansa…breathe with me.” Petyr stroked the outside of her thighs, up and down; inhale and exhale. Petyr thrusted gently on the inhales. He could feel Sansa opening up more for him. Soon her legs were locked around him, keeping him inside.

   He worked over her slowly, feeling no rush to finish. Her concern melted away and ecstasy rose up to replace it. She reached for him as he pumped into her, he laid himself on top of her, their mouths colliding.

   They were breathing the same air. The pace Petyr set was slow and becoming excruciating to keep to; his body craved release. “How does this feel, Sansa?” He asked, ignoring his body’s demands.

   “It…good…Pe – etyr…faster…” She could hardly string a sentence together.

   Petyr chuckled. “Faster?” He nipped at her jaw and picked up the pace. Sansa’s eyes began to water. Petyr kissed each lid. “Sweetling, what’s the matter?”

   “S – something in me…is…burning…it…” She trailed off incoherently.

   “Does it hurt?” He asked, nose to nose with her.

   Sansa shut her eyes and shook her head. She couldn’t speak around her moans. Petyr pumped faster.

   “Sansa…” Petyr was close. “Love…look at me.”

   Sansa’s eyes flew open, locking onto his own. “P – Petyr…I…don’t…know…what’s…happening.”

   “Shhhh…don’t close your eyes. Look at me, love.” Petyr snaked a hand down between their rocking bodies, and worked his fingers expertly at Sansa’s nub. He swallowed her moan with his mouth, moving faster inside her. _‘Gods I am so close.’_

   Petyr had never seen anything come so beautifully undone. Sansa reached the summit of her arousal with a cry and crashed back down, dragging his own release with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this in the eye of a storm (a stomach bug has infected the youngest, and she shares her germs quite freely)
> 
> <3 
> 
> this is my first written sex scene. Tell me what you think!
> 
> <3 <3
> 
> Also, I'm painfully aware of my own ineptitude in writing chapter titles, but that is one thing I'd like to work on this week. Assuming I don't fall prey to this selfish bug.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationship between Petyr and Sansa has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, add 'summaries' to a list of things I'm not that great at XD
> 
> Warnings: nothing beyond the archive warnings <3

   Petyr pulled Sansa’s back to his chest, holding her close as their breathing slowed. He could feel her heartbeat against his skin. She smelled of cinnamon and honey, she smelled of sex. _‘That was…unexpected’_ He thought.

   “Thank you.” Sansa said.

   “Thank _you_.” Petyr said, nuzzling her neck.

   Petyr breathed her in. He planted feather-light kisses from her jaw to her shoulder. He began to work his way upward again, when Sansa threaded her fingers into his hair, halting him.

   “You know we can’t lie here forever, Petyr…but it _is_ a pretty picture.”

   “Mmm…It certainly is that, Sweetling. Tell me…are you in any pain?” He turned her in his arms so that he could study her face.

   Sansa moved her legs minimally. “I’m a little sore, but it’s not a bad sore, necessarily. I was afraid it was going to be excruciating.” She admitted.

   Petyr kissed the tip of her nose. “Sex is a pleasurable thing, Sweetling. What made you think otherwise?”

   Sansa arched an eyebrow at him. “I knew that men found it pleasurable. I had no idea that women ever did.”

   Petyr grimaced. “It is easier for men to take pleasure. It takes more skill than most men care to possess to give it in return…”

   “Most men aren’t kind.” Sansa mused.

   “I am not a kind man, Sweetling.” Petyr replied.

   “You are kind to me.”

   Petyr couldn’t find the words to respond to her assertions. He pulled her closer to him, and kissed her forehead. _‘I am kind to you because I care far more than I have any right to, Sansa. Can’t you see that? I am not a good man.’_

   Petyr sat up in the bed, reluctant. “You’re right, love. We cannot lie here forever. I must visit with Lysa before your afternoon lesson.”

   Sansa eyed him questioningly. “Afternoon lesson?”

   “Yes. Your morning lesson was on Westerosi History, and your afternoon lesson will be on facts and figures…I will work as quickly as I can with Lysa…while I’m occupied, you should ask Wil to have a bath made for you…as hot as you can stand, alright?”

   Sansa nodded. “Why the bath, Petyr?”

   He gave her a quick peck on her lips. “You might not be in pain now, but if you want to avoid being overly sore, you need a long soak…” He could imagine her sinking into a bath, to soak her swollen sex. Petyr shook himself, getting out of the bed to dress.

   “Would you join me in the bath, Petyr?” She asked, while his back was turned to her. _‘If she knew the things I wanted to do to her…”_

   He turned and flashed her a mischievous grin. “Anything you want, Sweetling. If you find a way to delay, I will join you when I can.”

   Sansa disentangled herself from the blankets and scooted to the edge of the bed. Petyr was desperately trying to regain his center of focus, when he noticed her wince as she put her full weight on her feet.

   “Can you walk?” He asked concernedly.

   Sansa nodded, taking one naked step after another until she stood close enough for him to embrace. “I can. Will you assist me with my dress?”

   Petyr kissed the top of her head. “Of course, love.”

   Sansa gripped Petyr’s shoulders while she stepped into her gown. He dragged the garment up her slender frame, mindful of her curves. She held the dress to her chest so that he could spin her and tie the laces in the bodice. _‘Did I do this only yesterday?’_

   When he finished with the laces, Sansa stepped away a pace and turned back to him. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. When all of the air had been expelled from her lungs, she was the picture of composure. She toyed with her expression until no trace of Sansa remained, she was Alayne again. The expression she gave him seemed to suggest he do the same.

   Petyr counted backwards from eight hundred by thirteen, and checked himself over with practiced fingers; he shifted his feet in his boots more comfortably, touched the center of every button on his coat, made sure his sleeves were matching, and adjusted the mockingbird pin meticulously. Littlefinger smiled at Alayne, who stepped forward to smooth down the greying hair at his temples.

   He fingered the mockingbird pendant dangling between her breasts, and traced the outline of the one she’d sewn into her dress. “Don’t forget your tome, Sweetling. Do not walk too slowly to your chambers. I will join you as soon as I am able.”

   Sansa said nothing as she turned to pick up the book on Westerosi history, clutching it to her chest. She glanced back at him when she opened the door to his chambers. “Thank you for the lesson, Father. I do so enjoy your tutelage.” With that, she left the room.

   Littlefinger smiled, watching her go. He wasn’t sure yet what to do about the most recent development in their relationship, but his outlook on the future was considerably more bright. Sansa was his, and Lysa would soon be out of the way.

O-O-O-O-O

   Lysa was lying in Robert’s sick bed when Littlefinger slipped into the room. She was curled around the boy, humming and stroking his hair. Maester Colemon was drawing the curtains.

   “A bit of sun will do some good.” Littlefinger asserted.

   Colemon gave him a measured look, but Littlefinger could detect no guilt or worry in the man. _‘If you hadn’t given yourself to the Order, you might have been a player.’_ Littlefinger studied Robert, who looked withered, but still fighting. _‘As it is, you don’t make a very good Maester.’_ Colemon left them alone to speak.

   Lysa stopped fawning over the boy, and turned toward Littlefinger. She smiled warmly at him, but, like his own, it didn’t reach her eyes. _‘Something’s amiss.’_

   “How are you, Lysa? And how is Robert?” He said, stepping fully into the room. He took a seat at the foot of the bed, and rubbed Lysa’s ankle.

   “I am well, Petyr…I trust you slept well?”

_'Ah.’_ “I did, indeed.” Contrition was something Littlefinger never felt, but he wore the expression perfectly. “I was worried I’d wake you, darling. I retreated to my study, until I felt I could find sleep.”

   Lysa seemed mollified by his explanation. She looked back to Robert. “He spoke in his sleep today…he seems to be improving…he is such a strong boy.”

   Littlefinger cleared his throat. “When he wakes, we should send you two down in a basket, so that he may recover fully at the Gates. Alayne and I can take the longer route.”

   She looked back at him, considering his words. “Perhaps Alayne should ride in the basket alongside us. It is certainly large enough. She was here when I arrived this morning, looking after Robert so sweetly. I should take time to know her better.”

   Littlefinger gritted his teeth behind a comely smile. “That sounds like a brilliant idea, Lysa. Although, I doubt Alayne would be willing to scale down in the basket without me. She has a fear of heights.”

   Lysa smiled. “Nonsense. I am her mother now, in a way. I’ll ask her to sing for me. She has a lovely voice.”

   Littlefinger ducked his head in agreement. “She does indeed. She gets it from her mother, no doubt. I’m not so blessed as that.”

   “I’m sure. Even a _whore_ has nobler talents, I suppose.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “Where is Alayne? I was sure she would be with you.”

   Littlefinger possessed iron composure, wrapped in an air of indifference. “We concluded our morning lesson. I sent her to get herself something to eat before the next.”

   “A learned bastard. Any child of yours would be well learned.” She scoffed, but there was no heat in it.

   “Even a bastard can rise high in society if they know how to go about it. Knowledge _is_ power.” He said.

   Lysa sat up and folded her hands in her lap. “Isn’t it just? I hope your evening lesson doesn’t keep you late from dinner. I feel as though I haven’t seen you.” The suggestion did not fall on deaf ears.

   He didn’t point out the boy lying in his sickbed, though his condition was the main reason for their infrequent coupling. He took her hands in his, and pressed a kiss on each wrist. “We’ll not miss dinner. I would love to have time alone with you.”

   He stood from the bed, and Lysa followed, insinuating herself into his arms. “I will conduct her lesson as quickly as I can, so that we may join you in your solar for dinner.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear, ghosting his lips over her jaw. “We will eat even more quickly, so that I may ravage you in your chambers.”

   He could feel Lysa shiver at his words. _‘I cannot wait to never touch you again.’_ He wrapped his hands loosely around her throat, and kissed her deeply. _‘I cannot wait to watch you die.’_

   “Go husband...” – she said against his mouth – “before I demand you stay.”

   Littlefinger chuckled darkly, stepping back from her. “As you wish.” _‘You could try.’_

O-O-O-O-O

   Sansa’s chambers were quiet, save for an occasional splash. Petyr shut and bolted the door, glancing around for Sansa. He found her in the small washroom adjoining her chambers, sitting on the edge of a large bathtub. All of the curtains in the room had been closed, the only light came from a few candles. Her hair was pulled over one shoulder, her back to him. The only notice she paid him was a single glance over the shoulder, unhurried.

   He stood still, silent as a shadow. Sansa had turned her back to him once again, trailing her fingertips in the steaming tub. _‘It must be my move.’_ He found that he couldn’t find the words to bridge the gap between them. Did she _want_ him to instigate? Petyr found himself indecisive.

   His eyes roved over every inch of her, seeking some indication of her desires. _‘Seven hells, she will tell me if I overstep. Pull yourself together.’_ Petyr stalked forward silently, bolstered by the thought. He had the lacing in her dress half undone before she realized he’d moved.

   “Are you feeling well, love?” He couldn’t mask the arousal in his voice with concern, though he was honestly concerned for her physical well-being. He managed to conceal his groan of desire when he pulled the dress from her body for the second time, however.

   Sansa stood and slipped the dress off completely, and turned to face him. “I am, Petyr.” She looked him over. “Are you going to join me, clothed?”

   Petyr didn’t answer. Instead, he began undressing, never dropping Sansa’s gaze. A blush crept up her face while he worked, and when he was bare, her eyes traveled down his body to his stiffening cock. He let her eyes linger for several moments, before he cleared his throat and tilted his head toward the tub.

   Sansa responded with a simple look, feigning ignorance. “In the tub with you.” His voice was as soft as steel is cold, and deadlier. Sansa shivered, but not out of fear…she was as raw as he was. She still did not move, a look of amused defiance settling on her face.

   Petyr scooped her into his arms with ease, his chest rumbling with a husky chuckle. He held her suspended over the tub, and when she arched an eyebrow, he dumped her unceremoniously into the water. He stepped into the bath before she recovered from her baptism, his legs tangling with hers.

   Sansa came up gasping. “That. Was. Cruel.” She said, splashing him with water.

   Petyr smiled. “You really ought to do as you are told.”

   She huffed an exaggerated sigh. As the water settled, so did the humor of the moment. Petyr’s legs were tangled in Sansa’s, and just that morning, she’d asked him to take from her that which was not his to take. Her cheeks colored as the same thoughts, no doubt, coursed through her own mind.

   “Are you alright, Petyr?” She asked, timidly. It was a nicety, something meant to be uttered and summarily dismissed, filling a void where conversation would remove tension. Under normal circumstances, Petyr would stare down his conversational opponent; disdain any use of niceties on his part in an effort to quickly get to the heart of the situation. Sansa wasn’t his opponent, and she wasn’t ready to be a player yet.

   “I am, indeed, Sweetling.” She sat up straighter in the bath, and Petyr noticed her wince. He moved closer to her, his hands skimming up her legs. “You _are_ hurting.”

   She looked ashamed. “I’m sorry, Petyr.” She mumbled worriedly, averting her eyes.

   Petyr cupped a hand under her chin, turning her face to him. “Do not be sorry. Soreness happens, even when it is a happy affair. May I?” He gestured vaguely under the water, Sansa frowned in confusion.

   “Wha – ”

   “Not that, sweetling. I only want to massage you so that you are less sore tomorrow. You shouldn’t have sex again for a few days, at the very least, love.” She nodded her consent, and settled further into the tub, widening her legs. Petyr settled close, with Sansa’s legs propped on his own, crisscrossed under the water.

   He pressed the pads of his fingers into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, massaging small circles with each digit. Sansa rested her head on the edge of the tub, looking at the ceiling. The water came up to her breasts, every movement caused the water to ripple distractingly in Petyr’s periphery. He began alternating massage with stroking various parts of her body, as he got closer to her center. When his knuckles brushed her outer folds, Sansa sat upright and stilled his hands with her own.

   He met her gaze unconcernedly, waiting for her to give him a direction. After a moment, she released his hand, but didn’t rest her head again. She scooted her bottom forward, and watched Petyr work with intense scrutiny. “The key is,” – He said, brushing the backs of his hands over her mound, up and around her hips, where he pressed his thumbs into the muscles there – “to massage the muscles. It would be best for you if you became aroused,” – He rolled her outer folds gently between thumbs and forefinger, working from her front to her rear, carefully avoiding her sensitive nub in the process. – “but no sex.”

   He looked up then, and saw that Sansa was biting her lip to remain silent. He splayed his hands out on the inside of her thighs, and massaged her inner folds with his thumbs. Sansa seemed to have stopped breathing. He worked for several more minutes, intent on touching every part of her. Curiously, he lightly grazed her nub, and she whimpered, bucking her hips. Petyr pulled his hands away, smirking at her state of arousal.

   “Let me wash your hair.”

   She smiled shakily and turned her back to him. Petyr reached for a pitcher set beside the tub, filled it, and upended it over Sansa’s hair. He replaced the pitcher and picked up a cake of sweet smelling soap. _‘Pomegranate.’_ He smiled, working the soap into a lather on her head. Sansa leaned into his chest as he worked. _‘You are an awfully malleable person. Almost cat like. Cat.’_ He wondered how Catelyn would react to her daughter’s present situation, not well, surely. With Sansa so close, Petyr could muster no guilt over his actions.

   When he’d cleaned her hair, his hands wandered over her body, trailing soap. The way Sansa arched into his touch was heavenly. Petyr wasn’t a man who prayed to the Seven for anything, but he found himself more and more willing to fall on his knees to worship the perfect creature pressed against him. 

   Before he could tell her just that, Sansa turned and moved further into his lap, resting her knees on the tub bottom. Petyr kissed her sternum and looked up into her eyes. She swiveled her hips suggestively, causing his mouth to go dry. Suddenly, Sansa grinned and levered all of her weight downward on his shoulders, completely submerging him in the water. When he resurfaced, sputtering and soaked, she was nearly breathless with laughter.

   Her laugh was music. Petyr glared at her, but there was no heat in it. Her expression was one of total innocence. “ _That_ was for dumping me in the water.” She said smugly.

   “Yes, but now you’re on the defensive, my dear.” He explained. Sansa had no time to react when Petyr scooped her up and stepped out of the tub in one swift move. She curled her arms reflexively about his neck, and he carried her into the bedchambers.

   Petyr deposited Sansa onto the bed, and pointed a finger at her nose. “Stay.” He commanded. When he walked back into the room carrying a large towel, she hadn’t moved a muscle. He started toweling her dry, answering the question she hadn’t asked. He started at her feet, and moved upward, paying special attention to her breasts and hair.

   He was almost completely dry when he’d finished, but Sansa took the towel from him and scrubbed it over his head anyway. She combed his hair with her fingers, scraping his scalp with her nails. He couldn’t help but lean into her touch.

   “For someone so stiff and formal, you certainly like being touched.” She mused.

   Petyr hummed in agreement. “There are certain circumstances that warrant physical contact.”

   “To be honest, I never thought I would want to be touched at all, after Joffrey.” She confided. Her eyes lost focus, falling back into a past he couldn’t change.

   Petyr placed a finger under her chin, and leaned close. “You are Sansa Stark. You are too strong to be broken by the likes of a Lannister. The things that were done to you in King’s Landing were atrocious, and would have broken almost anyone…but not you, Sweetling.” Her eyes dropped to her hands, twisting in her naked lap. Petyr cupped her face in his hands, and brushed her cheekbones with his thumbs. She smiled into his touch.

   “I wouldn’t have survived without you.” She said.

   “You would have. You are a capable young woman. Your marriage to Tyrion was probably the best thing that could have happened for your protection. Joffrey wouldn’t have been able to touch you once he married Margery.”

   “Then why did you secret me away?”

   Petyr frowned thoughtfully. “The Imp is no friend of mine. His moral code supersedes his desire for political gain…and despite Tywin’s disdain for him, his love of family outweighed any hope for an outside alliance. His escape from King’s Landing, and the murder of Tywin, may be the most out of character thing he’s ever done. Though I admit his hand was forced.”

   “He escaped?” Sansa said, hopefully.

   “Loyal to your husband, Sansa? Do not forget he is a Lannister, and not completely innocent in regards to your treatment at the hands of his family.”

   “Neither are you, Petyr.” She pointed out, gently. “I’m not loyal to a husband I never asked for, but he _is_ a good person. I would hate for him to be punished for a crime he didn’t commit.”

   Petyr smiled. “Would you have me punished, Sweetling?”

   Sansa colored, but didn’t falter. “Of course not, Petyr. Joffrey was a monster. Where do you think Tyrion has gone?”

   “If he has any sense, he’ll have left Westeros entirely. I have a suspicion that he was helped. Varys has a soft spot for nobler fools.” He mused.

   “Like my father.” She stated, carefully measured and perfect. Petyr didn’t have a response.

   He offered her a hand. “Come, Sansa. We should dress for dinner, and discuss your lesson.”

   She accepted his hand and slipped off the bed. She dressed with her back to him, lost in thought. He studied the delicate way she performed even the most mundane of tasks. She looked more fragile than glass, but Petyr knew better. She was iron, she was steel, wrapped in spring blossoms. _‘Like my father.’_ Petyr shook his head, if she knew the half of what he was, she’d flee. She knew he was dangerous, but also knew he saved her from King’s Landing, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t harm her. She _should_ flee. Reveal herself to Lysa, and flee far from him. He knew she wouldn’t. He didn’t want her to.

   He stepped behind her and tugged on the laces of her dress. “May I?” He asked quietly.

   Sansa pulled her hair over one shoulder, nodding her head, and braided her hair while he did the laces. She leaned into his chest when he’d finished, resting her head on his shoulder. He spoke before he could stop himself.

   “Your father was a fool for not protecting you better. Some fools are the best of men.”

   Sansa stood straighter, head bowed. “I know.”

   “Are you ready to eat, love?”

   Sansa turned to him, the light in her eyes muted by sadness. “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Perhaps the next chapter will be a Christmas present =) (I have to write it first, so we'll see XD)
> 
> I live off of caffeine, children's tears, and the lovely comments you guys leave!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger and Alayne dine with Lysa. They make tentative travel plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I'm really really really really sorry this is so late. I didn't want to post the chapter until it had been edited to my liking, and the holidays made this one particularly difficult! <3
> 
> Chapter warnings: Dubious consent  
> Domestic abuse (mild/moderate)  
> Vague description of rape (not explicit)

   Lysa was seated when Littlefinger and Alayne walked into her solar. Her dress was midnight blue and the neckline plunging. Something in her bearing was beyond regal; madness lingered behind her eyes. Littlefinger left Alayne standing in the doorway, he lifted Lysa’s hand from the table and brushed his lips on her knuckles.

   “Wife.” He said, softly.

   Lysa lifted her eyes to him, and some of the madness receded. He heard Alayne settle into her chair across from Lysa. Littlefinger sat next to his wife, across from his lover, and prepared to play the game.

   “How is Robert?” Alayne said, before Littlefinger could open his mouth. She wore a look of open concern, he was reminded of the way she used to behave when in close quarters with Cersei. _‘Very well, dear. Placate her.’_

   Littlefinger’s posture was at ease; unconcerned, but somber. He settled back, allowing Alayne to take the reins. Lysa’s jaw clenched around her initial retort. She swallowed the words, instead giving the girl a warm smile. “He is well. He spoke in his sleep, after you left.”

   Alayne smiled, relieved. “That is excellent news. He is a strong boy. He reminds me of…well…never mind that.”

   Lysa leaned forward slightly. “He reminds you of who, dear?”

   Alayne glanced at Littlefinger before dropping her gaze to her lap. “He reminds me of one of the children I kept an eye on in King’s Landing.” – She looked back up at Lysa, a small smile playing on her face. One might interpret the smile as one of nostalgia; Littlefinger watched her play. “His name was Ahrin. He charmed anyone he ever spoke to. He had large green eyes, and an open heart. He was one of the older children, about nine or so, now. I remember a time when one of the patrons attempted to abuse a little girl in the brothel, not for sale. Ahrin grabbed a blade from discarded clothing, and brandished it at the man, threatening his life. I was there to bring both children to safety, but his unquestionable honor was truly something to behold. Afterward, he serenaded the young girl with a song. Like the stories. Robert Reminds me of him.” Her face was flushed, and by the end she nearly stumbled over the words in her haste to speak them.

   Lysa didn’t respond for several moments. She studied Alayne as though she’d never seen her before. Alayne attempted to curtsy sitting down, a frightened apology falling from rosy lips. It was magnificent.

   Lysa sniffed disdainfully, bringing her wine goblet to her lips. Before she sampled the cup’s contents, however, she sought to save Alayne her perceived humiliation. “Don’t apologize, girl. No doubt you’ve met many appalling people in King’s Landing. You are lucky to have a father of such great intellect…otherwise you’d be one of them.” She sipped her wine, still weighing Alayne with her eyes.

   Littlefinger pressed the fingertips of one hand into the table top, the other was clenched into a fist under the table. Alayne’s posture was that of a bastard; hunched, so that she may defer to her betters. The set of her mouth, was another story. She was unfazed, completely unbent before Lysa Arryn. _‘Not that you see it, do you, darling?’_

   A knock at the door ended the standstill. Wil showed himself in, laden with a tray of food, and set the table for them to eat. _‘Here is true humility. He bows and scrapes when he is meant to. He fetches and serves, because he is meant to. He knows I hold his life in my hand, and knows there isn’t anything he can do about it.’_ It was plain as day to Littlefinger.

   Dinner was a butterflied roast, seasoned with garlic and herbs, with a myriad of root vegetables and greens. Wil sliced the roast for them, being careful to remove the twine wrapped around it before placing it on their plates. He then served up the vegetables, inclining his head to each of them in turn as he filled their plates. He left the room moments later, no doubt to meet with Colemon.

   Alayne ate uncertainly, checking and rechecking the utensils she used as she went. She carved some bites too large, and others too small. Perfectly unpracticed. Littlefinger enjoyed the demonstration.

   “Tell me, Alayne…What do you know of Albar Royce?” Lysa asked, disinterestedly.

   Alayne started to speak with food still in her mouth, remembering herself at the last moment. She swallowed with some difficulty before replying. “I’ve only seen him twice, Lady Arryn.”

   “Please, dear…call me Lysa.”

   “Why do you ask…Lysa?”

   Lysa laid down her fork and knife, folding her hands in her lap. “You are a woman, dear. A bit plain, but worthy of the likes of Albar Royce. I should think Nestor would like to have grandsons to fill his halls.”

   Alayne colored, unsure of what to say. “He would make anyone a fine husband, Lady Arryn. I saw him ride at the Hand’s tourney in King’s Landing. He rode well. Though, I couldn’t see much from my place among the crowd. He’s very handsome.” She finished, bashfully.

   Lysa’s smile was wide. “Perhaps your father and I will arrange a marriage for you. We will be traveling to the Gates tomorrow, did you know?”

_‘Tomorrow? That is…earlier than I planned.’_

   Alayne looked at Littlefinger. There was a trace of fear in her eyes, quickly mastered. “Father didn’t tell me that we’d be travelling tomorrow. Though it will be nice to see Myranda again.”

   “Nestor tells me that Albar is very eager to see you again, Alayne. Petyr, what do you think?”

   Littlefinger chewed thoughtfully on his roast before replying. “I don’t see why not. Alayne is of marrying age…and with King’s Landing in such turmoil, I doubt I’ll be able to have Tommen legitimize her in a timely manner. This may solve the entire problem.”

   Lysa’s smile widened. “Then it’s settled. I will speak to Nestor when we arrive at the Gates, and Alayne shall wed Albar within the fortnight. Once the Maester has made sure things are in order.”

   “What things?” Alayne asked, having difficulty keeping up.

   “Your maidenhead, dear. He’ll need to make sure it is intact, so that he knows you are pure.” Lysa explained, as though to a dim-witted child.

   Littlefinger laid a hand over Lysa’s. “It isn’t.” he declared simply.

   Lysa glared daggers at Alayne. “You little – ”

   “Lysa.” Littlefinger asserted, dragging her attention to him. “Alayne was attacked, a few weeks before I left King’s Landing. It’s why I decided to bring her with me. I had every intention of leaving the brothel in her hands.” He wore a mask of painful remembrance. Lysa was dumbstruck.

   “You can’t blame yourself, Father.” Alayne intoned solemnly. Her eyes scanned the table in front of her, her brow furrowed, Littlefinger knew she was internalizing the back story.

   “What happened, Alayne?” Lysa pressed, leaned forward on the table.

   Alayne’s eyes were filled with tears when she looked back at Lysa. “Father was at the castle in a council meeting, and I was keeping an eye on the brothel. A – a man walked in…a – asking for Father. When I told him he wasn’t present…he attacked me.”

   “Did you know the man?” Lysa asked.

   Alayne shook her head.

   “You poor child.” Lysa said, her face wrought with false grief.

   Alayne broke out into a sob, burying her face in her hands. Lysa reacted before Littlefinger; she rushed to Alayne’s side to comfort her. Lysa covered her slump form in an awkward embrace. Alayne caught his gaze from under Lysa’s arm. Her wails were heart wrenching, her eyes were triumphant. Littlefinger hid his smile behind a grimace when Lysa returned to her seat.

   Alayne dried her tears, hiccoughing softly. “I’m sorry if this ruins any marriage opportunities I might’ve had, Father. I can make my way back to King’s Landing when we arrive at the Gates, tomorrow. I will need provisions.”

   Littlefinger set down his goblet. “Nonsense.” He said, simply.

   “I will speak with Nestor. I doubt Albar would refuse you in any case.” Lysa added.

 _‘Albar will never have the chance to touch her.’_ Petyr thought, heated. Littlefinger smiled reassuringly at Alayne. “All is not yet lost, Alayne. You have much ahead of you.”

   Alayne smiled and drank deeply from her wine. They finished their meal in silence. Wil came to clear the table, while they moved into the bedchamber to sit by the fire. Lysa offered Alayne her armchair, opting to sit in Littlefinger’s lap.

   “Alayne, dear, would you sing us a song? You have a lovely voice.” Lysa requested.

   Alayne blushed deeply at the compliment. “I wasn’t aware you’d ever heard me sing, Lysa.”

   Lysa smiled, settling back into his chest. “I overheard you singing to Robert.”

   Alayne looked to Littlefinger, who nodded. She acquiesced, taking a deep breath. Staring distantly into the fire, hands folded in her lap, Alayne sang.

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,  
save our sons from war, we pray,  
stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women,  
help our daughters through this fray,  
soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
teach us all a kinder way.”

   Her voice saturated the room. Lysa stilled in Littlefinger’s arms. Petyr couldn’t breathe, lest he disturb the magic pouring from Sansa. He was entranced.

“Gentle Mother, please forgive me,  
I must, myself, make war today,  
I wade in whilst my sword is gleaming,  
turning my foes ashen grey

Gentle Mother, help the children,  
led into the world astray,  
bring them home, so you may keep them,  
give them somewhere warm to lay”

   He hadn’t expected her to continue. The first two verses made up the prayer known to all; Sansa had added on to the familiar supplication.

“Gentle Mother, can’t you hear them,  
calling out for you, they pray,  
don’t ignore them, don’t forget them,  
they reach out for you either way.

Gentle Mother, you can’t hear us,  
elsewhere, we have sought our sway,  
your heart is cold and we don’t need you,  
elsewhere, you may seek your sway.”

   Her eyes were closed when she finished the song. Littlefinger couldn’t discern whether it was Alayne or Sansa seated before them. It wasn’t surprising that she’d given up on the Mother’s mercy; her family slain, her namesake a curse. He longed to hold her. Littlefinger sneered at the back of Lysa’s head.

   “You have a lovely voice. Though that wasn’t the song you sang for Robert, was it?” Lysa probed.

   Alayne glanced at Lysa. “Thank you…and no…it wasn’t the same song.”

   Lysa opened her mouth to reply, but held herself back. Alayne still stared into the flames, absorbed in their dance.

   Littlefinger pulled Lysa closer to himself, mastering his revulsion. She arched into his grip, letting out a breathy laugh. He silenced her by placing his hand over her mouth.

   “Alayne, go get some sleep. I would give you your morning lesson before we depart.”

   Alayne rose and was gone, but not before getting an eyeful of Lysa conquering his mouth with her tongue. He thought he heard a small chuckle as she left the room.

   Littlefinger started undressing Lysa, but she shoved him back into the chair and slapped his hands away. She undid his coat slowly, meticulously. When she had his chest bare, she dragged her nails over the skin, leaving angry red streaks. Littlefinger couldn’t suppress a hiss of pain.

   Lysa’s breathing was labored, but she was otherwise silent. She scratched him again and again, seeming to relish his pain. He didn’t drink enough wine for this. She raised her hands to rake him again, but he gripped her arms to stop her. Lysa wrenched from his grasp and slapped him. The smack rang out in the small room, and for several moments neither of them breathed. Littlefinger’s face stung, he ignored it. Lysa’s eyes were more challenging than remorseful, and Littlefinger’s fury was tempered only by his incredulity.

   He lifted her from the chair by the throat, and threw her onto the bed. _‘YOU.’_ He stripped off the remainder of his clothing before joining her on the bed. He didn’t bother undressing her. All his focus went into pretending Sansa was the woman mewling for him, though he doubted he’d ever be so rough with her. He flipped Lysa onto her stomach and hiked her hips up toward his.

   “Is this what you want?” Littlefinger asked, rubbing himself along Lysa’s slit. He waited for her to nod before plowing into her. He wanted to be anywhere else.

   When he’d brought her to her release, he pulled out and got off the bed. He couldn’t help but put as much space between them as he could. Lysa rose slowly, tugging her dress back into place. Her eyes had the same madness in them from before dinner.

   He spoke before he could stop himself. “You will never strike me again.”

   Lysa lifted her chin haughtily, dismissively.

   Littlefinger stalked toward her, deadly. “You will _never_ strike me again.” Lysa dropped her gaze, but he could see that she hadn’t submitted. He shook his head, grabbing his clothes from the floor. He pulled on only his shirt and pants before leaving the room.

O-O-O-O-O

   Littlefinger was out of breath and trembling when he walked into his chambers. _‘What is wrong with me?’_ His mind replayed the evening’s events.

   He sank to the floor, boneless. The stone was cool against his too-hot skin. He leaned his head against the door, and closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing. His chest ached from the quality of his breath, and his scar seemed to burn. _‘This is ridiculous.’_

   He sagged against the door for several more minutes, mastering his agitation. His arms and legs felt strangely heavy while his mind began to settle. _‘I cannot take more of that woman.’_ He thought of Sansa, chuckling as she left the room. Would she still find the situation humorous when she reached her chambers?

   He decided to pay her a visit, to discuss travel plans. Having an action in mind made it easier for Petyr to get up and move. He pulled off his clothes, frowning in disgust at Lysa’s stench tainting the fibers. He could feel rage bubbling closer and closer to the surface. _‘Sansa.’_

   Sansa was a single droplet falling into a still pond, and the calm before a storm. She was the breath of air before a soul’s confession, and the resounding forgiveness in the wake of sin. His rage subsided, his mind cleared.

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr slipped into Sansa’s chambers, his feet bare on the stone floor. The room was silent and dark. He stalked to her bedside, trying to discern her state of awareness. She was curled in on herself, her back to him, hands folded beside her head. She was asleep. Petyr thought of their first night at sea, standing over her sleeping form in complete darkness.

   Sansa stirred, turning toward him when Petyr sat at the edge of the bed.

   “Petyr.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement breathed through smiling lips.

   Petyr felt a smile touch his own face. “Sansa. I’m sorry I woke you.”

   Sansa sat up rubbing the sleep from her eyes, though neither of them could see the other in the dark. “No, it’s alright. I’m just a little surprised. I thought Lysa – ”

   “I’ve just come from there.”

   “Is something the matter?” She asked, concerned.

   “No, love.” – he lied – “I just wanted to speak with you about tomorrow.”

   Sansa didn’t reply immediately. “Alright…what about tomorrow?”

   Petyr took one of her hands in both of his own. “Lysa is going to ask you to accompany them in a basket for the descent…I want you to tell her no.”

   Sansa nodded. “Do you think she will allow me to accompany you instead?”

   Petyr shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I believe she will allow me to ride in the basket to assuage your fear of heights, if pressed.”

   “I believe I can do that…would you tell me why?”

   Petyr considered whether or not she would be able to act accordingly if she knew his suspicions. He decided he couldn’t chance it. “I don’t trust her with you, Sweetling.”

   Sansa huffed a sigh. “You expect me to go along with your plan, and you aren’t telling me everything.”

   “Sansa…do you trust me?”

   “I do…do you trust me?” She challenged.

   “Completely.”

   “But you won’t share the truth with me.”

   “If I always told you the truth, I wouldn’t need you to trust me.” He explained. Petyr leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

   Sansa leaned into him, and suddenly she was in his arms. He held her close, buried his face in her hair, and thanked the seven for the lack of light. His mouth found hers and he kissed her deeply. His blood boiled differently from before. Sansa was his catalyst.

   Sansa broke the kiss, placing a hand in the center of his chest.

   “You smell.” She said.

   Petyr grimaced. “Yes, Lysa is quite pungent…I apologize, sweetling.”

   Sansa plucked at his sleeves, not saying anything.             

   “I’m not.” Petyr offered.

   “Not what, Petyr?” she asked.

   “Fond…of Lysa.”

   “We should sleep…I have a lesson in the morning.” She kissed him then.

O-O-O-O-O

   Sleep eluded Petyr, despite his exhaustion. He had a niggling sensation in the back of his mind, an itch he couldn’t seem to scratch. It kept his mind awake until the early morning hours.

   When he woke, Lysa was in bed with him, staring.

   Littlefinger glared coldly at his wife. Lysa fidgeted under his gaze.

   “Forgive me.” She whispered.

   He didn’t respond.

   “I will never strike you again, Petyr. Forgive me.” She pleaded.

   He waited a moment longer before crushing her to his chest. He sneered into her hair. Lysa skimmed her palms over the scratches on his front, whispering apologies all the while.

   “Let me make up for last night’s folly.” Lysa suggested when he let her go.

   Littlefinger smiled thoughtfully before declining. “I have to give Alayne her lesson, and other things to prepare before we depart.”

   Lysa looked put out. “We could be quick about it. I want to make it up to you, Petyr.”

   Littlefinger placed a finger on her lips. “When we reach the Gates, we’ll see Robert and Alayne settled, and _then_ you can make it up to me.”

   There was a faint knock at the door, Littlefinger smiled ruefully at Lysa. “I am a busy man.”

   Lysa got up and crossed the room without replying. Sansa inclined her head meekly to Lysa as she stepped into the room. Lysa looked between Littlefinger and Sansa for only a moment before walking away, her cheeks crimson.

   “What was that about?” Sansa asked, approaching Petyr’s bedside.

   Petyr sat up, the blankets pooled around his waist. “She wanted absolution.” He stated.

   Sansa stared at his chest, her expression horrified. “What did she do?”

   Petyr shrugged. “She wanted to make sure I knew I was hers. Pitiful, really.”

   They spoke quietly so as not to be overheard, but Petyr redirected the conversation to be safe.

   “Are you ready for travel, Alayne?”

   “I am, Father.” She replied.

   “Good. Time for your lesson.” He motioned for her to sit on the bed. He brushed a thumb over her bottom lip, longing to taste her. “This morning’s lesson is about House Royce.” The way she licked her lips in anticipation was a rush.

   “So that I can know more about my husband-to-be. It is a good idea, Father.” She said, trying to remain calm while Petyr kissed her neck.

   “I am prone to good ideas now and again, Sweetling.” His voice was a growl.

   Anything else he might have said was interrupted by Sansa’s hand palming his cock. Petyr seized her by the shoulders and pressed her back against the bed, claiming her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Thank you for your lovely comments/kudos/etc.
> 
> Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Most of all, thank you for simply being spectacularly you <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr, Lysa, Sansa, and Robert have an interesting ride down the mountainside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: check tags <3

   “Lord Protector!” – Wil said, bursting into the room, gasping for breath – “You must come with me, quickly!”

   Littlefinger’s face was passive, unconcerned. “What is the matter?”

   Wil’s eyes widened. “Your daughter…”

   Littlefinger looked the man over. He was clad in a cloak meant for out-of-doors and sweating. He must’ve run through the whole castle to reach him quickly.

   “What has happened to Alayne?” He asked, hiding a grin behind a mask of alarm.

   “Lady Arryn has sent me to retrieve you. You should see for yourself.”

   Littlefinger stood, straightening his coat. “Lead the way.” He said, grabbing his cloak from the arm of the chair. He dressed as they walked.

   The percussive sound of his boots echoed throughout the empty halls. Servants had left the castle at dawn, to travel down the treacherous path to the Gates. The Eyrie would sit atop the Giant’s Lance, cold and empty through the winter. Petyr admired the atmosphere. _‘There is grace in solitude.’_

   They exited the castle through a door near the kitchens. Cold air ripped through Littlefinger’s cloak like a dagger, he paid it no mind. Alayne’s cries carried to them the moment their boots met snow.

   Lysa was struggling to drag Alayne into the basket. Alayne was on all fours, attempting to crawl away. As Littlefinger approached, Alayne cried out for him.

   “Father! Help me! Please!”

   Littlefinger rushed to her side, lifting her by the elbows to stand. Alayne wrapped her arms around him and held on fiercely.

   “What is going on?” Littlefinger asked.

   Lysa was breathing like a bull still steaming from the brand. “Your bastard!” She spat.

   Littlefinger looked to the Maester, hovering nearby. “Maester?”

   Colemon shrugged his shoulders, looking between Lysa and Alayne. “Lady Alayne won’t get in the basket.”

   Alayne gripped him tighter, but he lifted her face so that he could meet her eyes. “You agreed to ride in the basket this morning, Sweetling. What has changed?”

   Alayne broke down into a pitiful sob. “It is s-so high, father…I’m frightened…can’t I just ride a goat with you...please?”

   Her cloak was damp from the snow, and she shivered uncontrollably. “My dear, the mountain is just as high and twice as treacherous from the pass. You’ll be warmer, faster, riding in the basket.”

   Alayne turned and fell to the ground, dry heaving. Lysa looked upon her with disgust. “We cannot delay any longer, Petyr. Robert needs to get off the mountainside, and beside a fire. Now.”

   Littlefinger nodded. He lifted Alayne again, now boneless, and settled her firmly on her feet. “Daughter, I command you to ride in the basket with Lysa and Robert. If you do not stop this foolishness, I will ask the Maester to put you to sleep as well.”

   Alayne’s eyes widened in fear. She fell to her knees and clutched Littlefinger around his legs. He looked down at her, and had to master his lecherous thoughts in order to continue. “No, no, no. Please, Father. I cannot do it. I cannot…” She buried her face against his thighs and spoke into his legs.

   Littlefinger cleared his throat, looking to Lysa for support. She glared at Alayne coldly. “You must, Alayne.”

   Alayne bowed further, placing her face in her hands atop his boots. “Please don’t make me go alone, Father. Please…”

   Lysa folded her hands across her chest, raising a challenging eyebrow at Littlefinger. “Could that be possible?” He directed at the Maester.

   Colemon shook his head. “No. The basket should only have four, and I must tend Robert.”

   Littlefinger ground his teeth. “How much tending could the boy need. I can see to it. You could take a goat.”

   Colemon’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He didn’t look at Wil. “He must remain warm, and the sweat must be wiped from his brow.”

   Littlefinger nodded. “We can handle that.” He looked back at Lysa. “Wife?”

   Lysa sneered. “As you wish.”

   Alayne was much easier to manage after it had been settled. She stepped into the basket with some trepidation, making sure to snuggle close to Littlefinger’s side. Her cheeks were still wet with tears. Colemon looked over Robert a final time before signaling for the basket to be lowered.

O-O-O-O-O

   The view was awe inspiring. They were being lowered on the west side of the mountain, sunlight suffused their surroundings, but didn’t blind them. The mountain was snowcapped and freezing, the valley surrounding was mostly green, with a few trees giving in to the dying season. From this vantage, they could see the Bloody Gate far in the distance.

   No one spoke for some time. Robert occasionally muttered or whimpered in his sleep while Lysa dabbed sweat from his brow with a linen cloth. “Alayne…would you sing him a song, dear? It will quiet his tired body.” Her tone was softer than on the mountain top.

   “Of course, Lysa.”

   Alayne sat up and cleared her throat, her eyes fell upon Robert.

“Nine black bats over a field of gold  
one sipping nectar from a stream so cold  
along swims a trout up from the stream bed  
the bat falls in love with the blue and the red  
  
Night after night the trout courts the bat  
and soon sweet children they did begat  
over the river is where their time's spent  
over the river is where the bat went.”

   Littlefinger looked at his hands in his laps as she sang. Robert fell still once again, Lysa said nothing.

“Their children, they gleamed, with no feather or fur  
tiny winged swimmers, so pretty they were  
their mother a bat and their father a trout  
neither could they ever do without.”

Night after night the trout courts the bat  
and soon sweet children they did begat  
over the river is where their time’s spent  
over the river is where the bat went.”

   Lysa leaned forward and placed a hand on Alayne’s knee. “Your voice is so sweet.”

   Alayne inclined her head gracefully. “Thank you, Lysa.”

   Lysa continued without hearing her. “Your attention to lyrics is sadly lacking, however.”

   Alayne frowned. “I’m not sure – ”

   Lysa laughed humorlessly. “You sang ‘over the river is where the bat went’, but it’s ‘over the river is _where’s_ the bat _Whent.’_ You think I don’t know the words to my own mother’s lullaby, _Sansa_?”

   “Who – ” Sansa stammered

   Lysa rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that, child. You reek of Petyr, you filthy little whore.”

   Sansa’s expression evaporated, leaving only steel. “How long have you known?” she asked dispassionately.

   Lysa sneered. “I heard you singing _my_ mother’s song to _my_ son.” Her glare was murderous. “How long did you work to earn your way into my husband’s bed? A snake, just like your mother.”

   Sansa’s posture did not wither, despite the venom dripping from Lysa’s mouth.

   Lysa leaned her head back and laughed, long and cruel. “You think he loves you. He doesn’t love you, stupid girl. He loves what’s between your legs, and your uncanny resemblance to your mother, nothing more.”

   “Enough.” Littlefinger ordered. Lysa turned her gaze to him, a spark of madness glinting in her eyes.

   “It will all be well, Petyr. We will send this deceitful wench back to King’s Landing.” Lysa rambled, turning to look at Sansa. “Where they will rape you, maim your flesh, and mount your head for killing the Lannister brat. It’s a pity you won’t share your fate with your husband. The Imp is more cowardly than I believed.”

   Lysa aimed a smack at Sansa’s face, but Littlefinger caught her wrist. “Lysa.”

   Littlefinger used his grip on Lysa’s wrist to lift her to standing, and pull her into an embrace. He ghosted his lips along her jaw, seeking her ear. “I killed King Joffrey.” He whispered.

   Lysa tilted her head back to look him in the eye. He reached up with his other hand and brushed his knuckles along the side of her face, crushing her lips to his. He broke the kiss, his hand now gripping her throat. He sneered at Lysa. “I killed Joffrey _for_ Sansa. I’ve toppled kings. What will I do to you?”

   Lysa’s eyes were crazed. “You can’t kill me, Petyr. I love you more than anyone ever has. I’ve killed for you.” She said, gasping for air. Littlefinger squeezed her throat tighter.

   He rested his forehead against Lysa’s, looking over at Sansa, watching him. “Lysa. I am going to kill you…and I am going to kill Robert. The house of Arryn dies today.”

   Tears pricked the corners of Lysa’s eyes, but she couldn’t utter a sound. Littlefinger gripped her throat tighter and tighter, his anger building, until he felt a sickening pop under his hand. Her face sagged with pain. He looked at her with all of the disgust and contempt he truly felt for her. “Pity…I wanted to hear you scream.”

   He thrust her from him then, allowing gravity to do the rest. Lysa stumbled backward over the edge of the basket, her eyes falling upon her son, cheeks rosy with life, for the last time. She fell through the air without a sound. Littlefinger steeled himself for his next task.

   He crouched by Robert, sound asleep, and gathered a thick blanket in his hand. A hand wrapped around his bicep to keep him from pressing the blanket over the boy’s face.

   “Don’t.” Sansa plead, her voice thick with unshed tears.

   Littlefinger shook her off, covering Robert’s face with the blanket.

   “Petyr, please.”

   He ripped the blanket off, suddenly furious, and rounded on Sansa. “What would you have me do?”

   “He doesn’t need to die.” She said, weakly.         

   “You know that he does, Sansa. They will find Lysa’s body, and will wonder what happened to her. Robert is the only person she would die for.” Rage cycled through his body.

   “She would die for you.”

   Littlefinger rubbed his face with his hands. “Maybe. Is that what you want? Do you want me to throw myself over the side of this basket, and meet Lysa’s fate?”

   Sansa didn’t reply, she was looking over his shoulder, lost in her thoughts.

   “Sansa!” He barked.

   "You wouldn’t, even if I asked you to, Petyr.” She muttered, tears falling from her chin.

   “You’re wrong. I would die for you.” He moved to take her hand in his, but she drew in on herself, away from him.

   Petyr stood, looking down on Sansa. “What would you have of me, Sansa? One of us has to die, I cannot protect you if we both live.”

   She looked up at him, and for a moment, Petyr couldn’t breathe. He was a boy, being cut open in front of the woman he loved all over again. This time, he wouldn’t survive. He stepped toward the edge, prepared to fall.

   Sansa lowered her eyes. “Sit down, Petyr. I don’t want you to die.”

   Petyr crouched once again, turning to the boy.

   Sansa gripped his arm again. “Not you. Me. His blood is on my hand either way.”

   Petyr sat back, watching as Sansa hovered over Robert. She gathered blankets in her hands and pressed them on his sleeping face. He didn’t struggle, he didn’t flail or fight; he slipped away as peacefully as one could hope for. Sansa was humming under her breath, the Mother’s Prayer. _‘Fitting.’_

   Sansa uncovered Robert’s face, laid her head on his chest, and burst into tears.

O-O-O-O-O

   When they reached the bottom, they were met with sword points. Sansa had stopped crying out loud, but tears still spilled from her swollen eyes. Littlefinger allowed himself to be forcibly removed from the basket, his expression empty. Sansa was treated more gently. Albar lifted her easily from her kneeling position, cradling her against him as he walked away.

   Littlefinger was dragged into a small, dimly-lit room just inside the castle. He didn’t see where they took Sansa. Two men bound his arms and legs to a wooden chair and left him to wait. He didn’t need to wait long.

   Nestor Royce walked into the room, fixing Littlefinger with hard eyes. His son, Albar, followed on his heels, walking with deadly grace. Littlefinger gazed woodenly at the floor.

   “What – ” began Nestor.

   “My wife.” Littlefinger croaked, dragging his eyes to meet Nestor’s.

   Nestor gestured vaguely to Albar, who stepped into the shadowed portion of the room, where something human shaped lay under a blanket. Albar peeled the blanket off of Lysa’s face and Littlefinger cried out.

   “No! Please, no! Don’t show her to me like this! It isn’t decent! Lysa!” His voice broke over her name, his hands and feet fought against their bindings, ropes bit into his flesh.

   Nestor struck him across the face, hard. He grabbed fistfuls of Littlefinger’s cloak and lifted him, chair and all, into the air. “Calm yourself man! What happened?” He bellowed into Littlefinger’s face.

   Littlefinger became grief. “Sh-she jumped…from the basket. R-Robert died and she threw herself over the edge. I couldn’t stop her!” He trailed off incoherently, his eyes rolling madly around the room.

   Nestor dropped the chair to the floor, using a booted foot to keep it upright. “Is that so?” His expression was one of disbelief.

   Littlefinger overcame his grief to glare at the man before him. “Are you suggesting that I am somehow to _blame_?” he spat.

   Nestor brought his face so close to Littlefinger’s his whiskers tickled his nose. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

   Littlefinger pushed his own face forward. “How _dare_ you? I _loved_ her! I have always loved her. I have loved her since I was a boy! I would die for her!” he roared. He fought against his bindings, his chest heaved, he was fire.

   Nestor slumped into another chair. “We will see.” – he said, scrubbing his whiskers with a meaty hand – “We will ask your daughter. I hope for both your heads her story matches. What a mess.”

   “Is Alayne alright?” Littlefinger asked.

   Nestor didn’t answer, he left the room as swiftly as he entered, slamming the door behind him.

   Littlefinger turned his attention to Albar. “You, boy, is Alayne alright?”

   Albar’s eyes glittered darkly from the shadows. He stood by Lysa’s lifeless form, still as a statue.

   “Please, she’s all I have in this world, now.” Littlefinger plead.

   Albar blinked slowly. “She was alright when I brought her to my sister. Father is fetching her now.”

   Littlefinger sighed in relief. _‘I hope Sansa is up to this task.’_ He ignored the pain in his wrists, and waited.

   Nestor led Alayne into the room by the elbow, she didn’t look at Littlefinger. She took the seat Albar stepped forward to offer her, across from Littlefinger.

   Nestor crouched in front of Alayne, and Albar stood behind her. He brushed her knees with fatherly thumbs, Alayne stared at nothing over his shoulder.

   “I need you to tell me what happened, Alayne.” Nestor inquired solemnly.

   She dragged her eyes to Littlefinger for a heartbeat before looking at Nestor. “Robert…died…and Lysa…jumped…” Her speech was staggered, barely coherent.

   Nestor waited for more, but Alayne was silent. Fresh tears fell from long lashes.

   “I’m sorry, Father…it’s all my fault.” Alayne choked.

   Nestor sighed and stood, patting her leg as he did. “You’ve nothing to be sorry after, child. Robert was sickly, and Lysa…well…Lysa was a disturbed woman.”

   “I sang him a song.” Alayne whispered, her eyes were haunting.

   Nestor smiled down at her. “I’ll bet it helped carry his soul straight to the Mother’s arms, love. Albar, untie him.” He jerked his head at his son before leaving the room.

   Albar stepped around Alayne to cut the ropes from around Littlefinger’s wrists before following his father out.

   Petyr moved toward Sansa, pulling her up into his arms. He rubbed circles on her back and kissed the top of her head. “Oh, Sweetling.” He breathed into her hair.

   Sansa removed herself from his embrace, her eyes suddenly wary. Littlefinger did not touch her again.

   “We are still being watched, Sweetling. We may be for days yet.” He said under his breath.

   Sansa nodded knowingly, and accepted his offered arm to leave the room.

   Nestor and Albar waited just outside the doorway, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Albar stepped toward Alayne and Littlefinger. “Father says I am to show you to the dining hall, and then your chambers – ”

   Petyr held up a hand. “The dining hall won’t be necessary, Albar. It has been a trying day, I’m sure Alayne would like only to rest. I know I would.”

   Both men looked to Alayne who nodded wearily.

O-O-O-O-O

   He led them to rooms positioned across from one another in an otherwise empty hall.

   “Do you require anything else before I take my leave?” He asked, addressing Alayne.

   Littlefinger settled a hand on Alayne’s shoulder, smiling appreciatively at the man. “That won’t be necessary, Ser. I will see that we are each situated to our liking. I would ask that we not be disturbed before the morning meal.”

   Albar took a last look at Alayne before leaving them there.

   Littlefinger ushered Sansa into her chambers.

   When he had closed and bolted the door behind him, Sansa stepped out of arms reach to better watch him. Petyr turned toward her, his fingertips lingering on the wood of the door only a moment, a frown on his face.

   “Sansa.” He intoned.

   Her face betrayed little of the emotion he knew lay underneath, but he didn’t know how to reach it. He didn’t know how to reach her. _‘What must she think of me?’_

   He opted for honesty. “I told you I wasn’t a kind man.” He said, his arms folded one over the other at his navel.

   Her eyes weighed him, stretched him out for the world to see, and laid him bare.

   She didn’t speak.

   “If I knew what you were angry about specifically – ”

   “You would twist my words and manipulate me – DON’T deny it. I know what you are. What we did was vile. I _feel_ vile.” She interrupted.

   Petyr inclined his head. “I am sorry, Sweetling.”

   “He was a child, Petyr. A _child._ ”

   “You would have been killed. Here or in King’s Landing…it would have happened.” He reminded her.

   “I hardly believe that matters anymore.”

   “Sansa…” he implored, stepping closer to her.

   “No. Please don’t come any closer.” She said, maneuvering behind a chair.

   Petyr halted, his hands held in front of him. “I won’t. What do you want of me?”

   “Remorse. Some sort of feeling that isn’t a lie.” She said with no small amount of contempt.

   Petyr grimaced. “I feel no remorse for the death of a child too long at his mother’s breast. Despite his physical weakness, he was weak. He wouldn’t have lasted in this world. I feel no remorse for the woman who would have thrown you out of that basket as easily as I did her.”

   Sansa straightened to her full height, incredulity etched into her face. “You believe they deserved it, then?”

   Petyr chuckled darkly. “Now do you wonder whether you’d have preferred the lie? Yes, Sweetling, I believe they got what they deserved.”

   “Perhaps I will tell the Royces what transpired, so that you may get what you deserve.” She suggested.

   His brows furrowed. “That would plant your pretty head on the chopping block next to mine.”

   “Do you think I care?” she shot back.

   “I don’t think you want to, but I believe you do.” He answered.

   “No. _You_ care. I can’t anymore.” Sansa moved for the door, but Petyr barred her way.

   “Don’t make me stop you, Sansa.”

   “Move out of the way, Petyr.”

   “You are upset, and not thinking clearly. Think about this. There will be time to change your testimony after you have considered the implications for yourself. To speak up now would be very noble, very much like your father, but foolish. You know this!” He gripped her face in his hands, his nose touching hers.

   She tugged in vain at his hands, sinking to the floor. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. “This is madness.” She stuttered over and over, her body trembling. Petyr held her, on the floor, running his hands up and down her shoulders, trying to give her some feeling, trying to feel.

   “I feel no remorse for doing what I believed needed to be done, out of love.” He said into her hair. _‘I love you, foolish girl. I love you and I would happily let you destroy me. I will not let you destroy yourself.’_

   After a time, a question occurred to Petyr. “Why did _you_ kill him, Sansa?”

   “The person who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” She stated. Petyr knew the weight in her voice would haunt him until his dying day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap I had no idea plotting a murder was so much fun!
> 
> seriously though...
> 
> yay!
> 
> <3 to those of you still with me  
> <3 to those of you reading for the first time  
> <3 to those of you who think I'm trash and ought to burn in Hades   
> <3 to those of you who leave the most gloriously amazingly uplifting comments, because you're awesome
> 
> Questions? Comments? Concerns?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr and Sansa work together to find balance in their new surroundings
> 
> Warnings: covered in archive tags =)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, guys. I was sick as a dog last weekend (couldn't get out of bed sick) <3
> 
> <3 I hope I haven't lost anyone <3

   Littlefinger woke to the sonorous tone of the morning bell. His head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton, if the cotton were lit on fire. He grimaced.

   He rose from his bed with a grimace, dressed with a grimace, combed his hair with a grimace, fingered through sealed letters with a grimace, and grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. Splashing cold water on his face did little for the ache in his head.

   It had been late the night before when he finally collapsed in bed, alone. He briefly considered getting back in bed and sleeping through the entire day before dismissing the idea for the foolishness it was. He collected his thoughts, slipped three letters into his sleeves, and left his chambers.

O-O-O-O-O

   He heard Sansa’s door open and close from behind him as he walked down the hallway, he slowed his pace so that she could catch up.

   “Good morning, Alayne.” He said.

   “Good morning, Father. Where are we going?” She asked.

   Littlefinger smiled. “The aviary.”

   The large, circular chamber stank of bird feces. A dozen or so ravens croaked from various places along the wall. Petyr handed a scroll and thread to Sansa, indicating one of the birds.

   “Tie this to its leg, Sweetling.”

   She took the parchment and did as she was bid without question. She had a letter bound for King’s Landing. Littlefinger tied a second letter to the leg of a raven, bound to the Ironoaks, to the seat of house Waynwood. Slender arms encircled his chest as he worked, he fumbled the thread. Sansa let him go before he could turn and wrap his own arms around her.

   “Breakfast?” She asked, her eyes not meeting his.

   “Breakfast.” He agreed.

O-O-O-O-O

   They ate together in undisturbed silence. Alayne’s expression spoke volumes. She looked sad, lost, devoid of hope. The sight alarmed Petyr, until she pinched his leg and glared at him, exasperated. He immediately adopted a similar countenance, remembering himself. His head throbbed.

   When they’d finished their meal, Littlefinger leaned in toward Alayne, speaking for her ears alone.

   “I have some business to attend before giving you a lesson, today. Will you be alright on your own for a time?”

   She peered at him curiously before nodding. “I may visit the library, Father.” She mused.

   He patted her hand and kissed her cheek before taking his leave.

O-O-O-O-O

   Littlefinger cast about, searching for someone who knew where he could find Lord Royce. A serving woman, armed with a broom and bucket full of soapy water, turned his search to the training fields outside the castle. Before he could navigate his way out to him, Littlefinger was stopped by a hand gripping the fabric of his coat. It was Maester Colemon.

   “What happened.” Colemon demanded through gritted teeth. He slid each hand inside the opposite sleeve, and waited for Littlefinger to answer. His eyes darted in all directions to make sure they weren’t being too carefully observed.

   Littlefinger didn’t smirk at the man, though he wanted to. He maintained a perfectly neutral expression, and inclined his head ever so slightly to the man. “There isn’t much to tell, Maester.”

   Colemon looked furious, he looked worried. Before he could respond, though, Littlefinger had closed some of the space between them.

   “Robert Arryn died in his sleep, on the cold mountainside. Lysa, beside herself with grief, touched with madness, threw herself to the valley floor. She’d told me before that she couldn’t live without Robert. I didn’t expect that to mean she _wouldn’t_ live without him.”

   Colemon frowned, unconvinced. “I examined the boy, he died from lack of air.”

   Littlefinger’s countenance darkened. “Robert Arryn died because he became more ill than his body could handle. That the chill of the mountain stole the breath from his lips is nothing more than effect to a _cause_ no one can quite pinpoint.” Spinning words to soothe minds and break wills was one of Littlefinger’s favorite parts of The Game. Watching the blood drain from Colemon’s face, and _knowing_ that he wouldn’t act out of turn, was akin to sex. The Maester knew Littlefinger had him on the defensive, he knew there wasn’t any way he could raise suspicion without drawing it to himself. Littlefinger smiled.

   Colemon bowed his head, defeated. “I am sorry for your loss.”

   Littlefinger turned and walked away without responding.

O-O-O-O-O

   He found Nestor and Albar standing side by side watching over twenty or so pairs of men fighting. The clang of sword meeting sword echoed throughout the yard. Occasionally, Albar would bellow at the entire group, or shout instructions at a single pairing to better hone their skills.

   Littlefinger stood next to them, watching the fighting with disinterest. He waited for Nestor to acknowledge him.

   “Lord Baelish.” Nestor said, not taking his eyes off the men.

   Littlefinger bowed his head at the man. “Lord Royce.”

   Nestor turned his gaze fully upon Littlefinger, waiting for him to speak.

   “I have something for you, Ser.” Littlefinger said, pulling the letter from his sleeve.

   Nestor took the parchment from him, turning it over and over in his hands. When he saw the seal, his eyes softened. “What’s this?” He wondered.

   “I’m afraid I’m not sure. Lysa gave this to me the day Robert became ill, and said that should anything happen to her, that I see you got this.”

   Nestor didn’t hear. He broke the seal with a boot knife, and read. While his eyes scanned the document, they began to water, he stroked words he believed to have been written by a dead woman with a calloused thumb. _‘You actually loved her. Pity.’_

   He offered the letter to Littlefinger wordlessly, turning his focus again to the training field. Littlefinger read the words he’d written himself and adopted a mask of grief.

   “I congratulate you, Lord Royce. Though I imagine it would have been sweeter for Lysa to grant you hereditary lordship over the Gates in person. As it stands, I think you very deserving of this honor.” Petyr rolled the letter up again, and pressed it into Nestor’s hands.

   “I’ve sent word of Lysa and Robert’s death to the Ironoaks.” – Littlefinger continued –  “Harrold Hardyng should be here within the month to take his place atop the throne.” Nestor looked surprised.

   “I would think you’d take the throne for yourself, Lord Baelish. You are a more honorable man than I give you credit for.”

   Littlefinger smiled self-deprecatingly. “I would not presume to ascend a throne meant for higher born men than I.” with that he turned and left them to their tasks.

O-O-O-O-O

   Sansa was in the library, sitting in an armchair, scratching the ears of a large silver cat. He offered her his hand without speaking, and they walked arm in arm from the room.

   “What did you read about, Sweetling?” He asked, making small talk.

   “I was reading about cities to the east of Westeros. I think Braavos is my favorite, Father.” She answered.

   Littlefinger smiled. “Tell me what you’ve learned, dove.”

   Alayne chatted happily about the things she’d read as they made their way toward his room. Petyr shut and locked the door behind them when they entered. Sansa regarded him carefully, warily.

   “How are you feeling, Sansa?” He asked, vaguely.

   “I’m not sure what you mean, Petyr…I am still upset about yesterday, I doubt I’ll ever feel clean again after what I did. Are you asking if I’m angry?” She _looked_ angry.

   Petyr smiled sadly. “No, love. I’m more asking about pain. Are you in any pain from our activities at the Eyrie.”

   Sansa’s face colored beautifully. “Oh…no…I’m not in any pain…but I’m not sure – ”

   “I’m not asking because I have any intentions, Sansa. I’m asking because I honestly care. I don’t expect that you’ll ever fall into my bed again, Sweetling.” The thought saddened him, but he kept it from his face. She furrowed her brows minimally, and hope blossomed in Petyr’s heart.

   “What are your intentions, then, Petyr? What plans do you have brewing in your mind?” Sansa asked quietly.

   “Harrold Hardyng will come to the Vale, soon. He is the rightful heir to the throne of the Arryns. He will sit where Robert would’ve sat, had he lived to an acceptable age.”

   “That doesn’t answer my question, Petyr.” She pointed out.

   He inclined his head toward her. “I know, Sweetling. We have opportunities ahead of us, and we need to plan before he arrives.”

   “What oppor – ”

   “Marriage opportunities. You could marry Harrold and become Lady of the Vale. You would be adored by all those around you, and, in time, retake the North if you willed it.”

   “You want me to reveal myself, so that I might marry this Harrold Hardyng?” She asked.

   “Only if you wish it, Sweetling.”

   “What about you?” Sansa asked, confused.

   “I’m not sure I follow, Sansa. What about me?”

   “What would happen to you?”

   Petyr smiled. “I would return to King’s Landing, in all probability. Resume my work as Master of Coin, once I secure Hardyng’s oath of fealty to the crown. This was my task all along. I am the key to the Eyrie. Or I was.”

   “You would leave?”

   Petyr nodded. Sansa’s reaction to the news was puzzling. She looked somber at the proposition.

   “Sansa?” he probed.

   She looked at him and something in his chest seized. “What if I don’t want you to go?” She asked quietly.

   Petyr stepped toward her carefully, closing the distance between them. “I will do whatever you ask of me, Sansa. I can deny you nothing.”

   She didn’t move away when he embraced her. “I don’t want you to go.” She said after a time.

   Petyr kissed the top of her head. “Well…this is what planning is for, we need to discuss, so that we can affect whatever change we want.”

   “I’m not sure what I want, Petyr. I need time to think.”

   He let go of her, and studied her face. She was flushed and her eyes were distant.

O-O-O-O-O

   They made plans over the next three weeks, waiting for Harrold to arrive. Petyr was ecstatic. Sansa grew less and less distressed over the deaths of Lysa and Robert, and seemed to forgive him for his part in it all. Whether or not she would ever forgive herself was something Petyr thought about frequently.

   The lessons he gave her twice a day grew more and more informative, but Sansa kept her distance from him. There were times when she would embrace him a little longer than she meant to, and times when Petyr could swear she wanted him to act, but he never did. Their relationship, whatever it had become, whatever it was becoming, was a bridge for her to cross first. It didn’t make it easy.

   Days before Harrold was set to arrive, the castle’s atmosphere had changed. Littlefinger had developed a somewhat less caustic relationship with Lord Royce and his son, and Alayne had become fast friends with Myranda and Mya.

O-O-O-O-O

   Littlefinger left his midday meal with Lord Royce and wandered the halls, looking for Sansa. She knew the time for her afternoon lesson loomed, but he would still have to drag her away from her new friends. She seemed to crave the connection with people who expected nothing from her other than enthralling tales from her time in King’s Landing. She manipulated these conversations easily, and Petyr enjoyed listening to her talk, though he rarely got to.

   Today, she was in the library, alongside Myranda and Mya. The three of them were engrossed in a book open in Sansa’s lap, giggling in fits and bursts over what was written on the pages. He couldn’t see the name scrawled on the spine, but when he approached the group, Sansa closed the book and looked at him sheepishly.

   “Good book?” – he asked, smiling at the guilt on their faces – “Alayne, it’s time for your lesson.”

   “Yes, Father.” Sansa replied, a touch breathlessly.

   She followed him from the library, walking at his elbow, her eyes averted. Mya and Myranda’s giggles followed them into the hall.

O-O-O-O-O

   “That a book could render you so speechless causes my mind to be powerfully curious, Alayne.” He quipped. Their footsteps echoed as they walked. Sansa said nothing.

   When he’d bolted the door behind them, Petyr rounded on her, his eyes flashing. “What were you girls reading about?”

   Sansa’s face reddened, her lips were shut tight. Her eyes had a playful light in them, and Petyr found himself thirsting for more. He folded his arms across his chest expectantly.

   “What is today’s lesson about, Petyr?” She asked, hoping to divert him.

   “Today’s lesson is about telling the truth to people who can pick you up and put you over their knee.” He answered, stepping toward her.

   Sansa backed up until her legs hit the edge of an armchair. Petyr sank to his knees in front of her and placed his hands on either side of her legs. _‘Powerfully curious.’_

   His mind split, watching her. One side was thrumming with excitement and amusement, exhilarated. The other studied everything about her. Petyr could spend an eternity looking at her face, and only her face. So young, so beautiful, her eyes endless, and every minute expression spoke of a depth no one else possessed. She challenged him, and baffled him. She was here, and she didn’t want him to go back to King’s Landing.

   Forgetting the game, he lifted a hand to take a strand of hair from her shoulder. Brown. Dull. False.

   “Petyr…”

   Was it a question? Was it permission? He bowed his head to her knees, overcome by her presence. She dragged her nails along his scalp before pulling his head up by his hair. Her pupils were dilated and her breathing elevated. The room was too warm.

   Sansa helped him out of his coat. She helped drag his shirt from his breeches, and undid his laces one handed. Before she could pull down his pants, Petyr picked her up and moved her to the bed, stripping her as he moved. They fell, naked, atop the covers.

   Petyr kissed her everywhere, tasting every inch. This was much faster than the time before. The weeks of no contact had been worse on his nerves than the weeks spent traveling, it seemed the feeling was reciprocated. They didn’t speak. They warred with one another’s mouth, trying to gain an edge neither of them could see.

   Petyr maneuvered between her legs and brushed himself up against her entrance. Sansa’s eyes went wide.

   “Wait!” She gasped, scrambling to collect her thoughts.

   Petyr paused, biting his tongue against his need.

   “Let me?” She asked, uncertainly.

   Petyr didn’t know what to expect, but allowed her to lay him on his back, straddling his stomach. She traced his scar absentmindedly, not meeting his eyes.

   “Don’t you want to know what the book was?” She asked, when her breathing had slowed.

   Petyr nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

   Sansa’s cheeks colored. “It was instructions, of sorts, of how to please your husband…it had pictures.”

   Petyr cupped her cheek in a hand. “I’m afraid Mya and Myranda are a bad influence on you, my dear…did you learn anything, Sweetling?”

   Sansa didn’t answer, instead she snaked down his body, her nipples trailing wildfire down his torso. He lifted himself up on his elbows to watch, but Sansa gently pushed him back down. Petyr instead studied the painted ceiling, anticipation coursing through his body.

   Sansa kissed the tip of his cock and Petyr’s entire world went white. Every muscle strained against the impulse to push up into Sansa’s mouth. She paused, hovering close to him.

   “Does that hurt?” She asked curiously, her breath ghosted across him, driving him mad.

   “No.” he managed to choke out.

   She continued her exploration, Petyr closed his eyes. He felt feverish. She moved slowly, placing the tip of his cock in her mouth and swirling her tongue over him. Petyr gripped the blanket under him and groaned, he could feel her smile around him. He longed to touch her.

   “You…d-don’t have to…” He said after a few moments. He hadn’t asked for this.

   Sansa pulled off of him with a soft ‘pop’ and sat up to look at him. Her lips were red and puffy. Petyr nearly lost himself right then and there.

   “I wanted to try…is it pleasant?” She licked her lips unconsciously, nervous.

   Petyr could only nod. Sansa took him in her mouth again, trying to take more at once. He threaded his hands into her hair while she worked. She found a tempo she liked, bobbing slightly. It didn’t take long for Petyr to be at the edge, his brow and chest sweating.

   “Sansa.” He said, nudging her so that she would stop. She looked at him with some confusion.

   “What’s the matter?”

   Petyr chuckled. “Nothing is wrong, I don’t want to make a mess of you, dear.”

   Sansa moved to straddle his stomach again, the musky smell of her sex made his mouth water. They stared at one another for a heartbeat, when Petyr sat up so that he could kiss her swollen lips. Heat blossomed again in his belly, stoked by Sansa’s perfection.

   He kissed her neck, down her collarbone, down her chest, and took her right nipple into his mouth. Sansa ground against his cock, seeking release for her own tension. Petyr obliged.

   He fell back on the bed and helped Sansa lift herself onto him. It was a tight fit. She slid down his cock slowly, her face pinched in discomfort. When Petyr was inside her fully, her mouth formed a small ‘o’ and her eyes rolled under her eyelids.

   “Now rock and lift your hips, sweetling.” He explained, her enveloping warmth dropping his voice an octave.

   Sansa moved her hips as he showed her. She lifted herself up slightly, and Petyr thrust back to meet her. It took some practice, but soon they’d found a rhythm that had them both panting.

   He could feel her peaking, her brows knit in concentration, her eyes distant, she was tighter and tighter with every push. Petyr held himself back, his hands gripped her waist.

   He flipped them over and picked up his pace. Sansa closed her eyes and tried not to cry out.

   “With me, love. Look at me, love.” Petyr beseeched her.

   Sansa opened her eyes and Petyr knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. He leaned down to kiss her ear. “Touch yourself for me, love.” He said.

   Sansa’s hand moved down between them, and he could feel her working her sensitive nub, she grew tighter. He swallowed her moans and stifled his own.

   “Let go, Sansa. Let go, my love.”

   They came as one, their cries lost in each other’s mouths. Petyr remained inside her for minutes more, growing soft.

   “You are so beautiful.” He whispered into her hair. He kissed her sweaty temple.

   “I love you, Petyr.”

   Petyr pulled out and lay down next to her, studying her eyes.

   “I love you too, Sweetling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much much love to all of you beautiful homo sapiens, and any literate non-humans
> 
> <3 
> 
> questions?  
> comments?  
> concerns?  
> oaths of fealty? (those can/should be left to your politician of choice. In the event that no such politician exists, I've heard Misha Collins is always looking for minions XD )


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harrold Hardyng arrives at the Gates of the Moon. Petyr and Sansa have a plan. Can they go through with it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None in this chapter, introducing a slew of characters, I'll add them to the tags

   Harrold Hardyng and his entourage arrived in the dead of night.

   Petyr was pressed up against the headboard of his bed, Sansa rocking in his lap. His appetite for her was insatiable. Her hair draped around his shoulders and he buried his face in her neck, nipping the tender skin along her collar bone.

   Sansa snuck into his chambers for the last four nights. Once, he’d been sleeping, another time he came in late to find her naked on his bed, the previous evening he waited for her. Tonight, she hadn’t even gone to her chambers, she followed him to his own, undressing almost before he could close the door.

   The back of his mind cried for caution, but the moment he had his arms around her, those thoughts died.

   Sansa leaned her forehead against his, her breathing labored. Petyr had his hands on her thighs, pushing himself into her repeatedly. He was lost in this, lost in her. When she climaxed, Petyr brought her down from her peak with feather light kisses on every inch of exposed skin.

   There was a knock at the door. Petyr covered Sansa’s mouth with a hand, alarm silencing his own post-coital noises. He decided not to answer the door, whoever it was would most likely go away, and unless the castle was being attacked, nothing pressing could be happening.

   Sansa maneuvered around his hand and whispered in his ear.

   “It must be Harrold.” She stated. _‘Of course’_

   He leaned into her ear and whispered just as quietly. “He’ll want to sleep. No need to bother ourselves with his arrival tonight. Neither way will raise suspicion, but _we_ don’t want to seem over-eager.”

   Sansa nodded and rocked against him again. How she could want more was beyond him, as was his ability to tell her ‘no’.

   Petyr kissed her deeply, his arousal spiking easier than he believed possible. He tried to tell her with his actions what he couldn’t tell her with his voice, for someone might still be at the door, listening.

   He dragged his fingertips down her abdomen, cupping her sex with his hand. _‘I love feeling your desire for me, Sweetling.’_ She bit his lip in response, trying not to make a sound. He scooted her backwards on his lap and guided her hand to his stiffening cock. _‘Do you see what you do to me?’_ Sansa smiled, wrapping her hand around him. He leaned his head against the headboard and looked at the ceiling. She leaned in and kissed his chest, he closed his eyes, his heart thundering.

   He hissed when she grazed his left nipple with her teeth. Sansa chuckled and placed her hand over his mouth. She lifted herself onto him, sliding down with excruciating slowness. Petyr groaned into her hand, his eyes rolling feverishly under his lids. She moved her hand to take his and place them on her hips. Then, she gripped his shoulders so she could better move herself on him. He wasn’t having it.

   Petyr covered her mouth with a hand, and spun them so that he was on top of her. He chuckled into her hair and thrust into her wildly. Sansa dug her nails into his back, the effort of keeping quiet was agonizing.

   Several minutes later, they lay side by side, exhausted. Petyr stroked the side of Sansa’s face, relishing the way her eyelids fluttered and her lips curled into a smile. He brushed the bridge of her nose, her eyebrows, and her lips. _‘Exquisite.’_

   He watched her fall asleep, studied her breathing, the way her chest rose and fell. When he was sure she wouldn’t wake, he got up and dressed. He bundled her in a blanket, covering her nakedness, and carried her across the hall to her chambers. He placed her gently on her own bed, and slipped quietly out of her room.

O-O-O-O-O

   Littlefinger woke before the morning bell. He didn’t have to go far to find a servant, busied with preparations for the new arrivals. The woman smiled at him, stopping in her tracks.

   “Morning, m’lord. Can I help you?”

   Littlefinger nodded minutely to her. “See that my daughter has a bath this morning, and have her fit for new dresses.”

   She curtsied with a smile. “Of course, m’lord. I will see to it right away.”

   He continued down the hall, trying not to think about Sansa in the bath, but having a difficult time keeping his mind away from her for long.

O-O-O-O-O

   He entered the dining hall to uproarious laughter. Nestor and Albar Royce sat at a table with two grisly soldiers and a handsome man who could only be Harrold Hardyng. Littlefinger disliked him on sight.

   Nearly twenty, Hardyng was tall and strapping. Blond of hair, with steel blue eyes, and no trace of stubble on his strong chin. He radiated confidence and power. The men on either side of him were of little importance in regards to lands or titles, their presence was protection. Even if he wanted to, Littlefinger wouldn’t be able to lay a hand on their charge.

   “Baelish!” Nestor shouted across the room.

   Littlefinger wore a lazy smile as he approached the group. “Lord Royce.” He said, nodding to the elder man.

   Nestor gestured to the table. “Sit, eat, talk. Don’t be so stiff.” He said around a mouthful of bacon.

   Littlefinger sat across from Albar, who looked as he always did, eternally somber. He seemed to be a shy kind of person, he hadn’t made any move towards Alayne in the weeks they’d been at the Gates. For this reason, Littlefinger disliked him the least.

   “Where’s your bastard?” Nestor asked, glancing at his son who grimaced at the mention of Alayne.

   Littlefinger’s smile widened. “She is having a bath. I daresay I’ll have to track her down before her afternoon lesson.”

   “So many lessons for a bastard girl. Seems a bit dodgy to me.” Nestor asserted.

   “It may be out of the ordinary to most people, but I am not most people, Nestor, as you well know. It helps keep her mind off what happened to my wife.” He said, delighted at the way mentioning Lysa seemed to sober him up.

   Littlefinger turned his attention to Harrold. “You must be Harrold, I daresay your trip was largely uneventful?”

   Hardyng sat back and put his boots on the table. “Harry, please. Call me Harry.” Something snakelike settled on his handsome features. “Uneventful, unless you consider the chastity of every passing farmer’s daughter melting in my presence to be eventful.” He added.

   Albar’s face darkened a fraction at Harry’s bravado.

   “Trying to raise an army of bastards for yourself, Harry?” Littlefinger mused.

   Harry barked a laugh. “I already have one, and another on the way. A few more won’t hurt. Besides, it would be fun to put together, as it were.”

   Littlefinger took a bite of bacon. “You aren’t wrong there, lad.”

   Harry’s eyes snapped to Littlefinger at the name. _‘Don’t like being reminded of your youth? Interesting.’_

   Nestor leaned forward on the table, gesturing at Littlefinger. “Say, Baelish, isn’t _your_ bastard going to be legitimized soon?”

   Littlefinger smiled, nodding at Nestor. “I believe she is. Alayne Stone will soon be Alayne Baelish.” He poured himself some chilled wine, and grabbed a roll to nibble on while he listened to the others talk.

   They spoke at length about the weeks’ travel from the Ironoaks, and Harry’s various exploits. It was tedious, but informative.

   Anya Waynwood’s sudden presence amongst them culled the conversation topics considerably. Littlefinger rose from his seat to bow minimally to her.

   “Lady Waynwood.” He intoned solemnly.

   Anya’s face betrayed nothing. “Lord Baelish. I trust you find my charge suitable for the task laid at his feet?”

   Littlefinger looked to Nestor before bowing again. “I do indeed. Harrold seems an exemplary heir to the throne of the Arryns.”

   She looked past Littlefinger to Lord Royce. “We will host the ceremony soon?” It was less of a question, more of a kind demand.

   Nestor inclined his head to Anya. “Of course. It will take some preparation, and we’ll need to travel to the Eyrie. The sooner, the better. The pass will be impossible to travel within months.”

   Anya turned to scrutinize Littlefinger. He knew she disapproved of him, but could do nothing about it. Littlefinger smiled thoughtfully at her, tilting his head to one side.

   Littlefinger’s smile deepened when Alayne stepped into the room, the picture of poise. She wore a gown of midnight that flowed like water behind her. When she saw Littlefinger, she walked more quickly toward him until she caught Harry’s eye.

   “Oh! I beg your pardon. You must be Lord Hardyng.” She said, dipping into a nearly perfect curtsy.

   Harrold leaned back, undressing Alayne with his eyes. Petyr wanted to breathe fire. Littlefinger bore it stoically. “You, must be Alayne.” He said approvingly.

   Alayne blushed deeply, turning to curtsy to the others present. She spoke each of their names with absolute deference. When she curtsied to Anya, her voice faltered, searching for a name. “I beg your pardon, my Lady, I do not know your name.”

   Anya lifted Alayne’s chin with a finger. “I am Lady Anya Waynwood. My, but you _are_ a pretty thing.” She said, turning Alayne’s face each way with her hand. “Your mother must have been a goddess to birth such beauty to Lord Baelish.”

   Alayne backed away a fraction. “She was.”

   Littlefinger couldn’t read Alayne’s expression, but Lady Anya’s softened slightly as she regarded the girl. _‘The best mask is one born from genuine emotion.’_ He thought, pleased.

   Alayne took a chair next to him, giving him a peck on the cheek before sitting down. Lady Anya sat down on Alayne’s other side, across from Harrold. He could smell the scented soap Sansa used in her hair.

   Alayne poured herself a goblet of wine, drinking deeply. Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and Albar looked as though he’d swallowed something particularly distasteful. Alayne didn’t notice.

   After Alayne had eaten, Littlefinger interrupted the conversation to pull her away.

   “Time for your lessons, Alayne.” He said, rising from his seat.

   “Already?” Alayne said, disappointment in her voice.

   “I’ll make it a quick lesson.” He promised.

   Harry rose with them, extending a hand to Alayne. She placed her hand in his and he brushed his lips across her knuckles, never taking his eyes from hers. Alayne blushed.

   “After your lesson, you and I must walk around this magnificent place. Would you like that, Alayne?” Harry asked, all charm and smiles.

   Alayne turned a questioning look to Littlefinger. Her face lit up when he nodded his blessing.

   “That sounds _lovely._ ” She breathed.

   Littlefinger steered her away from Harry, his thoughts crying for blood.

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr didn’t look at her once they reached his chambers. Whatever they were, whatever they’d become, was about to be tested, and he didn’t know how he felt about it.

   Sansa rested her chin on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around him. Neither spoke a word. Petyr wondered if she had the same reservations he had about their plans.

   “Are you worried?” She asked, her voice muffled by his coat.

   “About what, Sweetling?” He asked, turning to face her.

   Sansa studied him for a moment before smiling and shaking her head. “Nothing.”

   “Are _you_ worried, Sansa?” He pulled her to him by her hips.

   “No.” She replied. Petyr couldn’t discern the truth of her statement.

   He kissed her then, slowly, attentively. He wondered if kissing her would ever stop feeling like the first time. He wondered if he would be able to cope with the last time.

   “Tell me what you know about Harrold Hardyng’s claim to the Arryn throne.” He said, pulling away. There was a tightness in his chest that he didn’t care to explore.

   Sansa looked puzzled for only a moment before she answered. “Harrold Hardyng is the grandson of Alys Arryn, taken as a ward to Lady Anya Waynwood. Alys Arryn was Jon Arryn’s sister. In the event of Robert’s death, Harrold would take the throne, and the surname ‘Arryn’.” She stated simply.

   Petyr nodded. “Good. Are you confident that you can ingratiate yourself to Anya? She will be key.”

   Sansa thought for a moment. “I am confident that I can, but the ‘what ifs’ are numerous.”

   Petyr gave her a roguish grin. “They always are, when lives are on the line.”

   Sansa drew a shaky breath. “You aren’t wrong.”

   “About this afternoon…when you walk the castle with Harry, play to your strengths. You are beautiful and unassuming, he won’t know how much he can get away with…but he may test the limits. You decide for yourself what those limits are, and I will be close by to help you enforce them, should it come to that. I doubt he would attempt to hurt you, but you can never be sure.” Petyr said, watching her for any sign of fear.

   “I’m uncomfortable using Albar in any of this, though, Petyr. He seems to be a genuinely good man.” Sansa said, one arm hugging her middle.

   “Play to your strengths, Sweetling. We may need to use him, yet.”

   “I understand. I just hope we won’t have to.”

   “I love you, Sansa.” He whispered. The words still sounded strange to him, coming from his lips. It had been an age.

   Sansa smiled warmly. “I know.”

 

O-O-O-O-O

   Littlefinger stayed in the shadows. He watched Sansa walk arm-in-arm with Harry, their paces slow, and in sync. She would occasionally point out intricacies in the castle’s stone work, and he would seize the opportunity to move closer to her. When she noticed his proximity, she’d giggle nervously before distancing herself again. Cat and mouse. _‘What the cat doesn’t know is that **this** mouse is a wolf.’_

   He wished he could get close enough to the pair to hear what Harry whispered into her ear. Alayne fell into fits of giggles every time the boy spoke. When he caught glimpses of her face, she looked happy. It bothered him. _‘She looks at him the way she used to look at Joffrey…before she understood how twisted his heart was.’_ He realized. Knowing his heart was just as twisted only soured his stomach more.

   The pair strayed from any place that had people milling about, seeking the seclusion deeper regions of the castle could provide. Petyr was surprised they never entered the library. _‘Perhaps it is a place of solitude Sansa has carved out for herself.’_ He wondered if he could ever entertain her there. He imagined pressing her up against bookshelves, reading her poetry while she painted the room with her moans.

_'Unless she isn’t playing with Harry. She might be interested in pursuing him.’_ A small voice said, rising from a deeply bothered portion of his mind. Petyr scowled.

O-O-O-O-O

   They finished their walk back at Alayne’s apartments, heads close. Littlefinger stayed around the corner, listening to their conversation.

   “I had a very nice time walking with you, Alayne.” He could hear the boy say.

   “I agree, Harry, it was lovely.”

   They were speaking so quietly, he was sure they were standing closer to one another than was strictly necessary, but his position here was to intervene when he heard Sansa say the words.

   “Tell me, Alayne, have you ever been with a man?” Harrold asked, sounding distracted.

   “I beg your pardon?” She replied, there was iron in her voice.

   “I meant no offense…I just thought with your father’s…business practices being what they are…” he trailed off.

   “I was not for sale, if that’s what you mean.” Her voice was cold. Littlefinger wished he could see her face.

   “I apologize for my rudeness. How can I earn your forgiveness, pet?”

_'Pet! Do not make me kill you child.’_ Petyr thought, savagely.

   “I’m not sure, for the moment. I have a lesson, and I believe I’d like to lie down before dinner. I will see you then, my Lord.” She concluded.

   Littlefinger walked around the corner and approached the pair openly. Before Harry caught sight of him, he had wrapped an arm around Sansa’s slender waist and bent to kiss her possessively. Sansa turned her head at the last moment, and his lips brushed her jaw instead.

   When her eyes fell upon Petyr, glaring daggers at the boy’s back, she pushed against his chest, a coy smile playing on her lips.

   “Are you ready for your lesson, Alayne?” Littlefinger asked, startling Harry to the tips of his boots. He was close enough to plant a dagger in the young man’s back. _‘You mustn’t get so distracted, Harry. It’s bad for your health.’_

   Alayne stepped around Harry, pausing for a moment to stroke his cheek, and took the arm Littlefinger extended for her. Harry turned and walked down the hall.

   “We will join you and the others for dinner, lad.” Littlefinger called after him, relishing the way Harry’s back stiffened when he called him ‘lad.’

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr followed Sansa into her chambers, closing the door behind them.

   “You didn’t kiss him.” He mused.

   Sansa arched an eyebrow. “I knew you could see, it made me uncomfortable.” She explained.

   Petyr nodded. “In order for this to work, you are likely going to have to kiss him at some point.”

   Sansa frowned at him. “I don’t see how that could be. How would that make you feel, Petyr?”

   He stepped forward, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Sansa, I do not own you. I love you. This plan will only work if we make it believable. Sometimes we have to do less than savory things in order to achieve our goals.” He thought of Lysa.

   “I understand.” Sansa said, a note of sad resignation in her voice. “He’s handsome, but completely full of himself.”

   “You will win him. You will take him by surprise and own him. I have every confidence in you.” Petyr assured her.

   Sansa smiled and turned so that he could untie her laces, which he did, taking his time. His hands wandered over the silver scars on her back, fingertips leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Sansa shivered at his touch. He moved his hands to her hips, pulling her against him, naked. Sansa stopped his hands before he could cup her breasts.

   “I’m tired, Petyr. I would like to sleep before dinner.” She said, turning her head so he could kiss her over her shoulder.

   Petyr took a shaky breath and stopped his exploration. He lifted Sansa from her feet, cradled her in his arms, and carried her to her bed.

   “Your wish is my command, Sweetling.” He said, laying her down.

   “Thank you for understanding, Petyr.” She said, closing her eyes.

   “No understanding necessary, Sansa.” He replied softly.

   “We will have tonight.” She mumbled, her mind foggy.

   “Tonight, you will have a special task.” He said, kissing her forehead. _‘A very special task.’_

   Sansa didn’t hear, for she was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovelies for bearing with me. This story is nearly finished! What do you think is coming? 
> 
> Comments?  
> Kudos?  
> Concerns?
> 
> <3 <3 <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans within plots within schemes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: none that I can think of <3

   They dined on braised lamb, roasted potatoes, and fresh greens. Lady Anya spoke with Nestor between mouthfuls, their heads bowed together. From what Littlefinger overheard, and the way Nestor’s whiskers would twitch, they were reminiscing about Lysa, when Jon was still alive. Alayne was sat on either side by the Royce children, and across from Harry. Albar and Myranda gazed somewhat sullenly at their food, both seemed to be put out by Harry’s interest in Alayne.

   Littlefinger sat across from Myranda, glancing at her often. When she looked up from her plate and caught him looking, he glanced back down at his food with a small smile. After a few repetitions of this, Myranda touched his foot with one of her own, under the table. _‘So, so easy.’_ He thought, his eyes flashing dangerously at the young woman.

   The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, but Myranda never took her slippered feet from Littlefinger’s. His attention on the girl did not go unnoticed, either. Alayne and Albar glanced suspiciously at him. _‘Secrets, whispers, mayhem…I’m home.’_ Littlefinger thought.

   “May I walk you to your chambers?” Harry asked Alayne, when the meal was finished.

   “I think I would like that.” She replied, standing with him.

   Littlefinger let them go. Alayne cast one last glance over her shoulder at him before leaving the hall. Nestor gestured to Albar, who in turned joined the conversation with Lady Waynwood. Littlefinger lifted his gaze slowly from the table. Myranda’s foot stilled when his eyes met hers. There was something burning there Littlefinger intended to reach the bottom of.

   He pushed his chair back and stood up without taking his eyes from hers. He waited for her in the dark corridor outside of the hall.

   “Walk with me?” He asked, when she appeared around the corner. She accepted the arm he extended toward her without hesitation.

   They ambled through the castle in silence. Myranda seemed nervous, despite her willingness to play his game at the dinner table. Littlefinger walked with effortless grace, exuding calm, detached power.

   “You and Alayne have become fast friends, haven’t you, Lady Royce?” He asked, stopping her mid-stride in a darkened hallway, far from any passing ear.

   “We have, Lord Baelish.” She replied, a bit breathlessly.

   “That pleases me greatly, Myranda…because…I’ve been noticing you.” – He took a step toward her – “You are a beautiful woman.”

   “Thank you, Lord Baelish.” She whispered, backing up against the wall. He pursued her every step.

   “Tell me, dove…have you considered marriage?” He asked, moving a strand of her hair behind her ear.

   “Um…not really…that’s something for my father to decide, Lord Baelish.”

   He was close enough to smell the wine she’d had at dinner. “Am I making you uneasy, Myranda?”

   Some of the fire returned to her eyes, and she pushed back, moving closer to him. “No.”

   Petyr placed his arms on the wall behind her, and brushed her nose with his. Her lips parted expectantly. He did not indulge her.

   “Consider it, then. For me, dove.”  He used his hands to push off the wall. He left her there, wondering, wanting.

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr couldn’t see past his nose when he walked into his chambers. There was no fire in the hearth, so when the door closed, darkness pressed in from all around. He undressed with practiced hands, his eyes seeming to scan nothing more than his most pressing thoughts.

   He’d resisted the urge to listen at Sansa’s door. Walking with Myranda, laying groundwork for plans to come, hadn’t taken very long. Petyr didn’t know how he would react if he had stopped to listen and heard Harrold’s voice emanating from her chambers.

   He tossed his coat where he knew the bed was, and unlaced his shirt.

   “I kissed him.” Sansa’s voice sounded from his left.

   Petyr grimaced, glad of the dark hiding his face.

   “How was it?” He asked, pulling off his shirt. His heart thundered in his chest, thinking of Harrold trying to possess that which he had every right to possess.

   “It felt as though he was trying to eat my face.” She said, a trace of disgust in her voice.

   Petyr was relieved. “Not everyone is well practiced. How did you perform, my dear?”

   “I acted as though I’d never kissed a boy before. He seemed to be holding himself back.”

   Petyr grinned, his chest swelling. “You _haven’t_ ever kissed a boy, Sweetling.”

   “You are quite right, Petyr.” She said, he could hear the smile in her voice. _‘Oh, darling. What twisted games we play.’_

   He moved closer to where her voice sounded from, carefully, so that he didn’t bump into anything. “You know that innocence won’t be enough for him, don’t you?” Littlefinger asked.

   “What do you mean?” She asked.

   He figured she must be sitting in an armchair, so he moved to crouch in front of her. There was a residual warmth coming from the fireplace, someone had banked the coals.

   “What I mean, Sweetling, is that you are going to have to elevate your capabilities to suit the man…Harrold is not a patient man. He does not love you, or desire your happiness. He wants one thing, and one thing only. You know what that is.”

   He turned from her then, allowing her time to consider his words. He grasped around for the iron poker. When he found it, he moved it amongst the ashes, searching for still-burning embers. The faint red light didn’t illuminate anything, they only served as a point of reference for him.

   He fumbled for the bushel of sticks in a bronze amphora, taking two or three finger-wide branches out and placing them atop the coals. He blew into the coals, giving them life. They’d been well-banked, catching the sticks quickly. When the fire grew, Petyr took two logs and laid them in the hearth, taking care to not burn himself.

   “You want me to lay with him? I don’t know that I can, Petyr.” Sansa said when he turned away from the fire. Her words carried a sliver of contempt, aimed at him.

   Littlefinger smiled. “No, Sweetling. That would work against us.”

   “What then?” She asked, tiredly.

   Petyr took her hands in his own, kneeling before her. “This was something we planned for, but couldn’t plan around, Sweetling. We needed to take a closer look on the kind of man Harrold Hardyng was, before we could understand how best to move him. We can now move forward, knowing how to play our hand.”

   “How do we do that?”

   “If you behave timidly with him, he _will_ lose interest. He will aim to get into your bed, and then be done. You mustn’t allow that. You need to be coy, and above him in your heart, in your mind.”

   Sansa nodded, but he could see she didn’t quite understand.

   “He needs a challenge. You must press forward, and then halt everything, but leave him wanting. He has to hunt you, he _needs_ to hunt you. Take control. You said that kissing him was like he was trying to eat your face. Show him what you like, command him, and then when he moves of his own accord, push him away.”

   “What if he gets bored, Petyr? There are other young women in this castle besides me, prettier women.”

   “He won’t get bored. I’ll handle Myranda, and if he ever crawls into a haystack with Mya, we will know and use it against him.” Petyr assured her.

   “I don’t know how to do any of that, Petyr.”

   “You only need practice. I will portray young Harrold, and you will be Alayne.”

   “This doesn’t bother you, Petyr? Me, playing games with another man?”

   “Sweetling, if you aren’t making me jealous, you aren’t playing the Game properly.”

O-O-O-O-O

   They practiced for several hours, Littlefinger affecting an air of superiority. Sansa settled into her role after a time, pacing her part of their dance perfectly. He would close in on her and she would smile at him playfully before moving away.

   He stole kisses from her, opening his mouth too wide, pressing into her farther and farther. She’d pull back, and kiss him slowly, commanding him to meet her pace.

   He broke their kiss, leaning his forehead against hers. “You should let me in.” He said, eying her greedily.

   Sansa patted his cheek, her expression soft, but unbreaking. “It wouldn’t do for me to lose my virtue before marriage, Harry.” She reminded him. He’d posed this question several times throughout the evening, in different ways. Her response fit the situation each time.

   “You are perfect, Sweetling.” Petyr said.

   He changed the way he held her, making it more natural. She met his lips readily, as hungry for him as he was for her. Just as suddenly as they began, though, Sansa stopped.

   “I’m tired, Petyr.”

   He let her go, then, understanding. His own head ached for want of sleep. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

   “Alright, love. I will see you in the morning.”

   Sansa walked toward the door.

   “Sansa.” Petyr said, before she left.

   “Yes, Petyr?”

   “We have to use Albar.” He informed her.

   She grimaced at him sadly. “I know.”

O-O-O-O-O

   Petyr met Sansa outside her room the following morning. She smiled warmly at him, taking his arm as they walked to the dining hall.

   They were the first to arrive. They sat across from on another while servants set the table. Littlefinger poured himself juice, and filled his plate with piping-hot sausage links and bread. Alayne nibbled on sweetbread and blood orange slices. He wanted to lick the juice from her lips.

   Lady Waynwood and Lord Royce were the next to join them. Nestor sat at Littlefinger’s left, and Anya sat to Nestor’s left.

   “Good morning, Littlefinger, Alayne.” Nestor said around a mouthful of sausage.

   “Good morning, Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood.” Alayne said, nodding to each of them in turn.

   Littlefinger said nothing, drinking from his goblet instead.

   Before any conversation could start they were joined by Harry, Myranda, and Albar. Albar and Harrold sat on either side of Alayne, Myranda deliberated for a few moments before sitting next to Littlefinger.

   Another round of ‘good mornings’ sounded at the table.

   “Your hair is resplendent this morning, my Lady.” Littlefinger whispered to Myranda, who beamed.

   Lord Royce looked around the table before speaking. “Do you have plans this morning, Baelish?” He asked.

   Littlefinger turned toward the man. “Alayne has her morning lesson.” He answered.

   “Cancel it, she can have a long one after lunch. We need to plan for Harrold’s coronation.” Nestor said, he seemed agitated.

   “Of course, Lord Royce.” He looked at Alayne. “Will you be alright, dove?”

   “Yes, Father. I’m sure I can find something to do.” Alayne said, casting a glance at Harry.

   Harry leaned on an elbow, looking at Alayne. “What if you and Myranda come to the yard with me? I plan on practicing my sword forms. You two could watch.”

   Alayne glanced at Littlefinger before answering. “That sounds like fun, Harry. Perhaps Myranda and I could convince Mya to come with us.”

   “I could braid your hair, Alayne. If you’d like me to, that is.” Myranda offered, smiling happily at Alayne.

   Alayne returned Myranda’s sisterly smile affectionately. “Only if you let me braid yours.”

O-O-O-O-O

   Littlefinger joined Anya and Nestor in Nestor’s apartments. They were larger than his own apartments by a significant amount. Pelts of various beasts hung from the walls, along with the head of an impressive stag, and a stuffed hawk perched on a branch. There was little in the way of ornamentation, no gold inlay on any of the wooden surfaces, but fur was everywhere. Littlefinger was reminded of the late Robert Baratheon. The colors were dark and earthy, and everything in the room looked used. There was a large window in the west wall, looking upon the road he and Sansa had taken to get here.

   They sat in high-backed chairs around a circular table, facing one another.

   “Before I forget, Baelish, there was a raven for you this morning.” Nestor said, passing him a scroll sealed by the King himself.

   Littlefinger broke the seal and scanned the document, a calculated smile settling on his features. “Perfect. Thank you, Lord Royce.”

   “I take it your daughter has been legitimized?” Nestor asserted.

   Littlefinger nodded, tucking the document into his sleeves.

   Anya leaned forward. “Now to business. Preparations for Harrold’s ceremony.”

   Nestor nodded to Anya. “Indeed. There are several things to get in order. The first of which is who we can expect to show up.”

   “We should include Walder Frey, I should think.” Littlefinger suggested tentatively.

   “Why on earth would we do that?” Nestor said, deadly calm.

   Littlefinger sat back, looking at Anya. “Walder Frey now holds Lordship over the Riverlands, what with the Tullys being stripped of land and titles. The Vale needs to bend the knee to King Tommen, we need to make peace.” He explained.

   “Cutthroats and Lannister dogs!” Nestor roared, Anya was silent but glowering.

   “Have you forgotten, Lord Royce, that winter is coming?” The words of Sansa’s house left his lips bitter. “If we declare allegiances with houses against the crown, we risk everything. The Boltons have control of Winterfell, and if we are to survive the winter, we will need weight to take it back. We cannot affect change in our kingdom if we ride _against_ the kingdom. The numbers will never add up.”

   “I knew you were a snake.” Nestor spat, breathing heavily.

   “You brought me into this discussion, and this is what I believe to be the best. I know the foul taste you have in your mouth, Nestor. Do not dismiss what I feel simply because I am saying things you don’t want to hear. There are threats from every side. There is no ‘king in the north’ any longer. There is no allegiance we could make, powerful enough to withstand whatever might those ‘Lannister dogs’ might send our way.”

   Anya laid a hand on Nestor’s arm. “He speaks sense. No one wants a war when winter is at our door.”

   Littlefinger nodded at Anya. “War is at our door, regardless. Do you know what brews in the lands across the sea?”

   Nestor looked questioningly at him through thick brows, anger still burned in his eyes.

   “Reports of a three-headed dragon have reached King’s Landing. The young Targaryen whelp has been building an army while we squabble. Winter approaches from the north, and dragon’s fire from the east.”

   Nestor raised a hand to quiet him. “Enough. We will invite Walder Frey. I do not like it, and I do not like _you_. He will not reside in this castle, however. He can sleep in the stables for all I care.”

   Littlefinger left it at that. “We will also need to get word to King’s Landing. Harrold will need to bend the knee to the throne, and if he wants to keep hold of the Vale, he needs a wife. He needs sons.”

   “I suppose you intend to have your bastard marry him.” Anya snorted.

   “She’s not a bastard any longer,” – Littlefinger reminded her – “and my standing in King’s Landing could only help negotiations _in favor_ of the Vale.”

   “Do not patronize me, _Littlefinger._ Your interest in this marriage is only about service to _yourself…_ but you make fair points. I will consider it.” Anya said.

   “Myranda would also make a fine wife.” Nestor pointed out, glaring daggers at Littlefinger.

   Anya looked at him with knowing eyes, Littlefinger maintained an expression of absolute innocence. He knew she was connecting the dots, but he’d be damned if he gave her anything to use against him with his own mouth.

   They made a list of the Lords they’d send ravens to for the coronation. They made lists upon lists of items they would need to procure; extra bedding, logs for fires, mules for the journey, food for the feast. It took several hours of careful calculation, and by the end of it, Petyr had letters drafted and enclosed with the Arryn’s seal. All the while, Anya still looked upon him with distrustful understanding.

O-O-O-O-O

   Lunch was a far quieter affair. Nestor and Anya sat away from the group, talking quietly and casting glances at Littlefinger. Harrold, sweaty from his exertion, ate ravenously, and ignored Alayne and Myranda. Albar was more sullen than usual, picking at his food disinterestedly. Alayne and Myranda sat close together, their hair braided and strung with flowers, giggling over the events of the morning.

   When he’d finished his bread and cheese, Littlefinger left the table, beckoning for Alayne to follow.

O-O-O-O-O

   “Eventful morning?” He asked her once they were alone in her chambers.

   “Yes, Petyr. You?”

   “Extremely.”

   “Harry sparred with any man willing to fight. Before Myranda arrived, I spoke with Albar about Harry, suggesting that you were trying to force me into a marriage with him. Albar stalked onto the field not long after, and challenged Harry to a practice duel. He crushed him into the dirt while I braided Myranda’s hair. It was a bit fun.” She confided, grinning at him.

   “I convinced Anya and Nestor that allying with the crown was best for the Vale. Neither was particularly happy about it, but eventually came around. I thought Nestor would hit me. I also suggested that Anya consider your worth in marrying Harry. Though, Nestor would rather see him married to Myranda.”

   “She has better claims to it, Alayne is a bastard.” Sansa pointed out.

   “Not anymore.” He said, pulling the document from his sleeve. “Alayne Stone is now Alayne Baelish.”

   Sansa smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

   Petyr nodded. “Everything is according to plan. Isn’t it invigorating?”

   Sansa gazed at him through blue, steel eyes. “It most certainly is.”

   He leaned forward and caught her mouth with his own, kissing her hungrily. Her hands were in his hair, on his back, gripping his shoulders. They undressed one another, never breaking their kiss. They didn’t make it to the bed. He pressed her up against the wall, one arm wrapped around her back, the other covering her mouth.

   He took her there, standing upright, eliciting moans that would bring unwanted attention if he didn’t have her mouth covered. He kissed her shoulders and her neck while he pushed into her. He removed his hand from her mouth when she bit him.

   Sansa placed his hand on her throat, biting her lip with anticipation. He kept his hand around her neck, but didn’t squeeze. He covered her mouth with his own, nipping at each of her lips in turn.

   “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever set eyes on, Sweetling.” He said, fucking her wildly.

   She couldn’t respond. Her hands fumbled along the stone wall, trying to find something to hold on to. She peaked when Petyr did, crying out. He picked her up and carried her shakily to her bed.

   “I thought you said this would be a long lesson.” Sansa said, playfully.

   “I did, Sweetling.” He said, joining her on the bed. He craved her like a drowning man craved air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being here! 
> 
> The end is near, ya'll
> 
> <3
> 
> Comments? Kudos? Questions? Arguments?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/Kudos are definitely appreciated
> 
> If you're interested, I also have a tumblr for my work! My username is Subversive Multiverse!


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